Beneath Skin and Bane
by HelenaVonValsa
Summary: Six years after the Second Wizarding War Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy meet under extraordinary circumstances and pave the ground for a patron-protégée-relationship of profound consequences. Fighting for power and control, they end up blurring the thin line between fatal self-destructiveness and divine symbiosis. It's called politics. HG/LM, Lumione, ONGOING
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**Summary: **Six years after the Second Wizarding War Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy meet under extraordinary circumstances and pave the ground for a patron-protégée-relationship of profound consequences. Fighting for power and control, justice and vengeance, they end up blurring the thin line between fatal self-destructiveness and divine symbiosis. It's called politics.

**Rating:** **M** for adult content, subjects, and explicit language. Don't expect mere smut (although it gets _very_ steamy). I sometimes use specific terms, thus, annotations and translations are provided if the characters don't elaborate.

**Nerd-Alert:** The story has plenty of intellectual, political, cultural, and socio-cultural references. Happy hunting!

**A/N: _Vielen Dank_, my beta readers Lady Arthuria and Madame Cyanure! I do not own the HP-characters, they belong to J.K. Rowling.**

**I do appreciate constructive feedback. So please, do not hesitate to review.**

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"Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction." – Dante Alighieri

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**Beneath Skin &amp; Bane**

**1 Prologue**

He pushed the button for the fourth level impatiently, over and over again until he practically slammed his fist into it. The workers turned their heads and stared at him quizzically.

"It's not going to go any faster if you hit the elevator, Weasley," an old wizard commented drily and the redhead just grunted in response.

The golden grilles slid open, people flooded out, memos flew in, and the lift set in motion once more. Finally, the lift voice announced: "Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and the Pest Advisory Bureau."

The man stormed out, rushing through the corridor – right, left, left again – and tore a door open at the far end of the hall, causing the witch sitting at the desk to cry out in shock.

"Merlin, you nearly scared me out of my skin! Ever heard of knocking?"

Ron slammed the door behind him and yelled "Field work in the Auror Department, Hermione? FIELD WORK? What's gotten into you?"

It would be a blatant understatement to describe that Ron was not overly pleased about Hermione Granger's transfer from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to Magical Law Enforcement. The last time that she had seen him in such a state was when the Chudley Cannons landed at the bottom of the League, last year. No wonder Hermione was taken aback by his sudden outburst—but she quickly regained her composure.

"Ron, calm down, pl-"

"Are you crazy!" He flushed bright red and slammed his fist down her desk, causing her to flinch back in her chair.

All colour drained from Hermione's face as she glared at Ron – livid and, quite frankly, disgusted by his behaviour. However, she tried to answer in a civil manner. "No, Ron, I am not, but I _will_ be if I don't transfer. You remember how much I grumbled about doing useless work? I really got fed up with pushing papers around and desperately need a new challenge. I want to go out and see the world and this new post enables me to do so!"

"See the world!" He aped her. "Why do you think the International Confederation of Wizards convened an international taskforce to reinforce the International Statute of Secrecy? For fun? It's not a bloody weekend trip to Hogsmeade! Basilisks, the fight at the Department of Mysteries, Horcruxes, ill-tempered dragons, cat hair in Polyjuice Potions, mad Bellatrix, Fluffy, the Battle of Hogwarts! By Merlin's sagging balls, what did you think all of that was? I cannot believe that after all we've been through, you're willing to put yourself in danger again!"

She huffed and retorted with a voice growing louder and shriller with every sentence—"Oh, come on! You're completely exaggerating! I'm just working for a Muggle auction house. What's so wrong about detecting and confiscating magical artefacts in illegal possession of Muggles? Your father even recommended me for this post! Besides, someone has to do the job and I cannot think of anyone more suitable than me!"

"You know very well that he sees everything Muggle-related through rose-coloured glasses! But that's not the point," Ron countered, equally petulant, "You're abandoning us for the sake of your career!"

"Ron, could you please stop being so dramatic? I appreciate your concerns and that you care about me, but you forget that I'm not a helpless witch. I really want to use my abilities for a greater cause and I don't see that happening if I stay here," she said, trying to sound placatory.

"What did you just say? _A greater cause?_ Do you actually listen to yourself? Fame clearly goes to your head!" Ron scoffed, dead serious about what he said.

He had gone too far. Hermione rose from her chair and replied in a dangerously calm voice, her eyes narrowed to slits, "Says _you_ who shags every bit of pussy within a ten mile radius because they recognize you as a war hero. At least _I'm_ trying to do something meaningful."

Ron's jaw dropped and he stumbled back, sounding mortally offended. "I'm really disappointed, Hermione," he said and darted out, slamming the door with enough force to make a picture fall off the wall, breaking the glass.

Hermione stared at the closed door and added quietly: "As am I."

Much to her annoyance, Ron never managed to shake off his overprotective behaviour towards his former girlfriend. They broke up during her final year at Hogwarts while he was on the hunt for Death Eaters with the other Aurors. As much they had shared with each other, there was always an insurmountable distance between them fortified by many reasons – such as his self-indulgence in his, she had to admit, well-deserved, fame and its associated perks or his lack of ambition – but none of it mattered if the only thing she needed to feel for him in order to overcome those obstacles was not there; Love. Not the type of love friends or siblings shared but the kind of love lovers shared.

Hermione repaired the frame with a quick swoosh of her wand and returned it to its former place. Not satisfied with the result, she stood up and straightened the frame where Harry, Ron and herself waved at her, laughing and smiling. The picture had been taken during Harry and Ginny's engagement party.

Hermione slumped back into her chair. Needing to calm down, she shifted her attention towards the _Daily Prophet_ lying on the desk. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she read the article in the gossip column that caught her interest.

_THE MALFOYS HEAD FOR DIVORCE COURT_

_In the decade of glamour, they were the most glamorous, in the decade of greed, they were the greediest, and during the time of war, they were the most deceitful, but pride goes before the fall. Rumours of the seismic marital rift had whipped round the social circuit for months but were only endorsed until recently when an official file for divorce was handed in last week. _

_After the ultimate fall of You-Know-Who by Harry Potter, the former Death Eater family retreated from the social parquet to wait for their trial to come. Whilst the unmarried and sole heir, Draco Malfoy, came to terms with the Wizengamot's court decision and returned to Hogwarts for his NEWTs, Narcissa (née Black) and Lucius Malfoy's marriage took its fatal downhill. _

_According to a witness, the couple was seen arguing in the Ministry when Lucius Malfoy filed for appeal of his sentence of seven years witchcraft and wizardry prohibition and wand-ban. "Lucius Malfoy moved out and left the Manor to his wife," reported an insider. Apparently, the head of the ancient pure-blood family now resides in one of his estates. "No one has seen him in months." Unknown are also Draco Malfoy's current whereabouts but according to a former peer who wants to remain anonymous, he intended to study abroad. Neither Draco nor the couple were available for any comment._

Hermione's attention shifted to the moving photograph, showing the family in court during their trial after the war. Mrs Malfoy looked slightly dishevelled but tried to maintain her indifferent mask while Draco managed to adopt a void expression. However, Mister Malfoy, evidently inflamed with rage, shouted something at the Wizengamot, which the picture could not render.

"Serves him right," she murmured smugly and remembered her first encounter with the Dark wizard. It was at _Flourish &amp; Blotts_ and ended in a fistfight between him and Ron's father. The memory of his ruthless glare sent shivers through her body and her thoughts drifted to Draco. Since he was so close to his parents, it must have been quite a blow for him. She decided to write him after work. And since Hermione still owed him a bottle of Firewhisky for a lost bet, she could send the letter along with it.

_Enough_. Hermione took a deep breath. There was work to do.


	2. Chapter 2: A Clash of Egos

**A/N: _Vielen Dank_,**** my beta readers Lady Arthuria, LiterallyLiterary, and Madame Cyanure! The copyright of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling, a woman who turns words into magic.**

**Music is an invaluable inspiration for writing certain scenes and I don't want to deprive you of those pieces (go to my profile for the playlist):**

**At the airport: Kruder &amp; Dorfmeister (K&amp;D Sessions) Alex Reece Jazz Master**

**Mr. Malfoy's first appearance: Prokofiev (Slatkin interpretation/Berliner Philharmoniker) Dance of the Knights (Romeo and Juliet)**

**The clash of egos: Haendel (Prague Philharmonic) Sarabande**

**Oh, and I do appreciate reviews :-)**

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"No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected." – Gaius Iulius Caesar

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**2 A Clash of Egos**

Hermione walked with small but determined steps, passing the queue and walking straight to the counter for Business and First Class passengers. A young female station manager, wearing a hideously fake smile and far too garish make-up, greeted her as she stepped up to the desk. She handed over her trunk, showed her passport, and answered the security questions, having to speak up because of the noise beside her. The employee must have noticed her irritation, because she apologized submissively after she glanced at Hermione's frequent flyer card.

Curious, Hermione turned to the economy counter to see what the cause of the commotion was.

"…paid for the seat. You can't tell me that you gave away my seat to someone else because I showed up just on time. I'm not late!"

"Sir, we're deeply sorry but there is really no other seat available, but we can offer you a seat on the next…"

Hermione frowned at the scene. Why wouldn't the airline assign him a seat in another class? He was an old frail man and should be given some special attention.

"Miss, excuse me, why don't you upgrade him to Business or First? Surely, there is still a seat left?" the witch asked the station manager next to hers.

"Ma'am, unfortunately Business is full and we cannot...the policy does not allow us to upgrade him to First Class." The economy station manager sounded sincere.

Hermione decided not let that poor man down. "Please upgrade my seat to First and pass my Business seat to this gentleman. I'll pay for my upgrade with my miles."

Astonished, the employee complied. A genuine smile spread across Hermione's face at the sight of wide-open mouths and goggling looks that the old man and the surrounding people were giving her. The man thanked her effusively, promising to enjoy the flight.

However, the station manager frowned as she ruffled through Hermione's documents. She stared at her computer, made some hectic clicks and looked up, offering Hermione an apologetic smile. "Miss Granger, I'm afraid to say that your connecting flight from New York to Los Angeles might be cancelled due to the upcoming blizzard. We're not sure yet, but in case they close the airport, we will offer you suitable accommodation. Also, I just got the notice that this flight has a delay of half an hour. I sincerely apologize in advance for any inconvenience. Here's your boarding pass and your passport. Please enjoy your flight."

"Let's just hope for the best," Hermione answered, taking her travel documents and heading for the gates.

* * *

The ground staff watched the young woman recede in the vastness of the hall and disappear into the crowd – when an impatient clink demanded their attention.

"Ah, welcome..." she babbled, her sight still glued on Hermione Granger's figure when she finally managed to avert her eyes to take care of her next costumer.

The station manager froze in shock. Before her stood a tall man of impressive stature with flaxen hair, clad in a heavy, black, cape-like coat with a sleek mink collar, flowing elegantly down his proud figure. The way he stood, sturdy and still, while holding an ornamented cane in his gloved hand, made it unmistakably clear that he was the epitome of pride and majestic dignity. However, the man's well-proportioned yet pale face held no warmth at all. Cold grey eyes bore into the station manager, almost bringing her to her knees, wiping away the so carefully conditioned fake smile from her face.

He tapped the cane on the counter once more and she could see, much to her distaste, that its handle was shaped in the form of a snake's head with imbedded green sapphires as eyes. "This is my passport and ticket. You may find it incredibly useful for the process of assigning me a seat on this aircraft." He raised his chin and wrinkled his nose slightly in disdain.

The employee blushed in embarrassment. She was not unfamiliar with the condescending behaviour of certain customers, but the haughty drawl of the man before her made her feel like a dim-witted slut. "I'm sorry, yes, yes, of course," she blustered, taking the documents he had placed on the desk.

She was utterly relieved when the man proceeded to the gates.

"Heavens, those posh twats have a way to deal with people and make us feel like we're nothing but filth," she murmured to her colleague, who bit her lip, eyeing the man with lecherous eyes.

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Hermione took a sip from the well-balanced but rich tasting Meursault Chardonnay and tried not to wolf down the meal before her; Grilled Scottish wild salmon accompanied with red fennel and light lemon risotto. The smell was simply divine but treacherous, reminding her of her boss René who was probably going to deduct those miles from her salary but at least she was able to help someone who was in dire need and enjoy the perks of luxury travel at the same time.

_Screw money, what I did was worth every penny_, she decided after her first bite and closed her eyes briefly to revel in the beautiful composition of tastes unfolding on her tongue. _Yes, screw it._

Her gaze drifted lazily over the faces of the people in the lounge. There was a shamelessly handsome man about her age stealing glances at her. She knew that face from somewhere and it dawned upon her that she had seen him in a recent movie. What was his name again? Hugo, Hugh, Hubert? Suddenly, the actor stood up and walked towards her. Hermione's heart jumped in anticipation but much to her disappointment, he just passed by.

The all too familiar feeling of loneliness stung her heart and she scowled at the empty seat opposite of her. She missed her friends dearly, even more now, after that lovely Christmas they had spent together at Harry and Ginny's place. Just this morning she had bid them goodbye and she could still recall her friends' heart-warming hugs.

Hermione finished her meal, savouring its aftertaste, when she felt an odd tension pervading the room. Curious, she looked up and froze when she met the gaze of a familiar but unwelcome pair of cold, grey eyes.

Astonishment was followed by anger, which was immediately replaced by smug satisfaction. Hermione recalled that the Dark wizard was not allowed to possess a wand and exercise magic by law for another couple of years. He was a venomless snake, forced to adjust himself to a life worse than he could ever imagine even in his greatest nightmares.

With that knowledge, she stared back at him with the same curiosity she reserved for appalling, yet strangely sensational, exhibits in a museum. That analogy suited him well with his striking charisma that emanated an air of natural arrogance justified by blood purity, lineage, and wealth, expecting everyone around him to exercise submissive behaviour where he was concerned.

Even his attire was deployed as a proud and deliberate statement of his heritage, emphasizing his beliefs in racial disparity. But what truly astonished her was that absolutely nothing indicated his age or his imprisonment, despite the scarce, fine wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and Hermione had to admit that Lucius Malfoy had a face made for eternity, as if chiselled from white marble by the gifted hands of Antonio Canova.

A hostess served him a glass of golden liquor and he touched her arm lightly, whispering something to her and making her throw a coquettish smile at him before leaving gracefully. It made Hermione furious to see him mocking Muggles just to provoke her.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione almost jumped. She looked up to see that the waitress who had just served Lucius Malfoy was now at her table.

"Mister Malfoy would like to ask if you'd be so kind as to join him?"

"What?" She blurted.

The woman cleared her throat in embarrassment. "Mister M-..."

"Yes, it would be my _pleasure_," Hermione answered coolly. She was not willing to give him the satisfaction of an open display of crude animosity that could be held against her as some sort of wicked proof for her humble upbringing or blood status.

She approached him and he raised from his seat, moving toward her as she neared the table, both only stopping after they had invaded one another's comfort zone. Provocatively, she tilted her chin up and raised her hand in greeting, making it evident how she wanted to be greeted.

Lucius Malfoy cocked his eyebrows, yet never tore his eyes from hers as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. The touch of his surprisingly warm lips and hand felt absolutely delusive in contrast to this wizard's past, but she did not cringe. She ought to gain control of this situation.

"Miss Granger, we finally meet again," he greeted her in his cool patronising voice crawling like spiders down her spine.

A faint spicy and musky odour filled her nose, dazing Hermione to such an extent she did not notice that Lucius Malfoy made her sit down in the opposite chair by a slight but powerful motion of his arm. Hermione blushed at the realisation that he managed to exert his power on her with such ease.

"Good evening, Mister Malfoy. How are you?" She asked him politely, surprised by her own controlled demeanour.

"I live. What more can I wish for, Miss Granger?" He answered in an equal manner. "I am surprised to find you at such a place."

"The same applies to you, Mister Malfoy," she said lightly and he paused, an almost non-existent smirk tugging at his lips.

"Your friends made sure of that," he drawled and examined her from head to toe.

The hostess placed a glass of whisky before her. Neither was willing to take the conversation further. However, there was not the slightest sense of disconcertment for Hermione. This was her territory, after all.

She smiled inwardly when Lucius drained his glass. "Well, what an unconventional choice of travel for a…legend like you. Tell me, Miss Granger, what is the nature of it?"

"Work," she replied shortly. "I'm a specialist for the auction house _Vuilleumier &amp; Sons_ in Geneva, conducting evaluations of European medieval and renaissance books and manuscripts," she answered cautiously, trying not to give away too much information.

"A witch of your reputation and talents working for a Muggle auction house?" he said doubtingly and added haughtily, "Surely you were offered better positions at the Ministry? You would not want your abilities and influence to go to waste by working for _Muggles_."

Lucius Malfoy's sneer was speaking volumes. The wizard did not believe for a single moment that she was a mere Muggle employee and it did not matter how she chose to respond. Either way, he already knew there was more to her story than she was willing to admit.

"My heritage allows me the flexibility of transitioning seamlessly between both worlds," said Hermione defiantly. "And who said I was _wasting_ my abilities?"

"Heritage, trade, talent," the wizard said softly, "It may have escaped your notice, but you share plenty of traits with the legendary heir of Slytherin."

"As much as Tom Riddle Junior and I share, it is yet very little. He met his demise and I live. What more can I wish for, Mister Malfoy?" said Hermione, satisfied with her retort.

His adamant eyes glistened but his face remained frozen. "How tactless of me to mention him in your presence. I ought to offer you an apology…if the compliment was not interpreted as such."

"Yes," she replied mildly, waiting for the apology that was never given. "But I suppose Malfoys are never taught how to issue one."

"It is an art nonessential to me, Miss Granger."

"But deceit and ruthlessness?"

"Is this how people like _you_ refer to adaptability and the will to survive?"

"You mean _Muggle-borns_?"

"No. Fools."

Her eyes narrowed. "Being, as you interpret, a _fool_, certainly proved to be a more successful strategy than yours."

"That is because we differ on the definition of success."

"If you consider being wandless a success, then I must congratulate you. It's the wisest choice you've probably ever made."

The way he looked at her strongly suggested that he would not forget that blow. And when Lucius Malfoy replied, his voice was sharp like a Damascus steel blade; "Oh, you flatter me, Miss Granger, but I consider being alive and walking free the greater success. The inevitable inconvenience of being temporarily wandless is a small price to pay for the role _I've_ played in the past, do you not agree?"

Hermione huffed. _I could just stand up and leave._

And it might have been best if she had, but her own stubbornness held her in place, vehement that she would not concede defeat. She crossed her legs and arms, feeling his gaze wandering lazily up and down her legs – quite bluntly, yet apparently unimpressed – and she could not help but blush in indignant embarrassment. The man really knew no shame. If they both sought to survive this trip unharmed, she would have to ram some manners down his throat. And nothing was as effective as reminding Lucius Malfoy of his soft spot.

"How's Draco?"

Her opponent's expression softened just for a fraction of a moment. "Ah, very well. Draco is pursuing an academic career. Of course he excels, as I expect nothing less than excellence from my son."

"That's why we meet at such an unusual place. Well, I'm pleased to hear that Draco is faring well." And she meant it. It was relieving to discover a fraction of humanity in the Dark wizard's soul, even if it only extended to his son.

"What is he studying?" Hermione was too curious to see what his father actually thought about his son's choice.

"What do _they_ call it? Ah, _Economics_." He practically spat the last word, displaying his obvious distaste.

Of all the wizards and witches who had strayed so very far from their parents' desires, the offspring of one of the most ancient and purest wizarding families had ended up studying Economics at a Muggle university. It was karma in action. His father looked like he was about to choke. Lovely.

"I didn't know he had it in him," she answered facetiously, not realising she actually smiled at Lucius Malfoy until his own lips twitched oddly in response.

"He is the fruit of my loins, after all."

Hermione groaned, contorting her reddened face in shock. "Ew! Please spare me this image!"

The wizard's lips curled into a discrete but sinister smile. "You've handed it to me on a silver platter, Miss Granger."

Hermione downed her whisky.

"Would you care for another one? I certainly would."

"Please, I insist."

Lucius Malfoy made a slight gesture with his finger and soon enough, two more drinks were served. It was unbelievable how someone with an authoritative charisma was able to control the whole environment instantaneously with such natural assurance and Hermione realised she envied him for his confidence that did not falter even in foreign climes.

But it was Lucius Malfoy and nothing about him was supposed to be admired. He was ruthless. She was almost murdered in his own home by his own sister-in-law.

The mere thought of Bellatrix Lestrange sent shivers down her spine and Hermione tried hard to suppress those memories connected to her. "I'll have to excuse myself." She stood up, barely noticing that he had mirrored the action, and headed for the toilet.

As soon she closed the door behind her, she released a shrill and frustrated cry. Her sight blurred and her hands were trembling as she lifted them to her chest, feeling her heart racing. Echoes of screams, shouts, and snivels were filling her head. Pictures of Bellatrix, memories of the torture Hermione had to endure, and Lucius Malfoy's eyes; his cold grey eyes staring at her when she was being tortured, watching her every move in naked fear. She had glared back and he had looked away. She had cried and he had retreated.

She despised him.

The witch glanced into the mirror, staring determinedly at her own reflection as she whispered defiantly, "You're Hermione Granger. You're a witch and you're alive. And you're on duty, so pull yourself together!" She pinched her cheeks, lightly slapping away the images.

Hermione fixed her chignon, straightened her cream-coloured blouse and midnight blue pencil skirt, and went out.


	3. Chapter 3: Unknown Intentions

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews so far! I've been very busy with work but always kept on writing.**

**_Vielen Dank_, my beta readers Lady Arthuria, LiterallyLiterary, and Madame Cyanure! The copyright of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.**

**Here's the music (check the link to the playlist on my profile):**

**A serious debate between two nerds: Lamb - Angelina**

**In the lounge I : DJ Krush - Stormy Cloud (with Ken Shima)**

**In the lounge II: Massive Attack - Black Milk**

**Oh yes, I'd love reviews**

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"To fight and conquer in all our battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting." – Sun Tzu

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**3 Unknown Intentions **

It came to no surprise to find their seats adjoined. Either fate was searching for a way to spoil Hermione's flight or the ground staff had misinterpreted the nature of their relationship.

"So tell me, Mister Malfoy, is it curiosity, ennui, masochism or sadism that brought you to seek out my company?" Hermione asked after they were seated.

"You may choose whatever reason you find most befitting, Miss Granger, since the result remains the same. But I assure you that you shall not come to regret my company during this tedious journey."

"That sounds like a blatant promise to me."

"Oh, one which I intend to keep." The wizard shot a curious glance at her. "It is quite a coincidence to meet a specialist on antique books as I myself am a passionate collector."

"I'm listening..." She eyed him expectantly while the stewardess wafted flutes of Cuvée Dom Perignon under their noses.

"In regard to my son's…unconventional choice of education, I recently have acquired some pieces of Jean-Baptiste Colbert's collection-" he raised an eyebrow at her expectantly.

"_Bibliotheca Colbertina,_" she gasped and he inclined his head approvingly.

"-so I might as well encourage him to read more into Colbertism. But what truly caught my interest is the outstanding bookbinding. Of course, it never matches the beauty of the sixteenth century French embellishment designs but its refreshing minimalism exhibits a new masculine strength, which is a relieving contrast to the favoured flamboyant ornamental designs."

Hermione was taken aback by his profound knowledge, yet irritated by his opinion. "Surely you aren't referring to the Roffets?" The family ran a well-known bookbinding workshop.

"Not so much Pierre, but his son Étienne."

That was as good a declaration of war as anything.

"How bold! Étienne Roffet designed outstanding pieces, which can even be found at the Hogwarts library! The style of his embellishments is the most beautiful display of graceful and playful symmetry, the perfection of lush décor without becoming tawdry. Next you're going to tell me that you love those crude fishbone-designs from the Scottish workshops of the eighteenth century."

Lucius Malfoy scoffed at her remark. "Oh, profoundly primitive in contrast to the Grolier books by Jean Picard."

"I will not deny that. He was a master of his trade." Indeed, even after so many decades, connoisseurs of the trade like bookbinders, collectors, art historians, and designers held great respect and admiration for the Grolier books.

"And as it happens, I possess some of his most _bewitching_ pieces," he drawled, smirking as he glanced sideways at her.

"Are you mocking me?" she demanded as she turned to glower at him.

His eyes glowed insolently. "Not at all. Let me show you." He reached for his pocket and took out a palm mobile phone.

_Wait, what?_

Her hands darted up and covered her smile, biting back a burning laugh, which remained stuck in her throat while he was pressing the digits.

"Here."

The images showed a beautiful French reprint of _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_ by Argo Pyrites bound in Moroccan leather, gilded with golden symmetrical ornaments and alchemistic symbols.

"I didn't know that he also bound books for our kind," she whispered in awe, "It's beautiful."

"It is, Miss Granger, it is. Absolutely invaluable and _not_ for sale."

"Where did you get it?"

"It has been in our family for centuries and, as a matter of fact, it is one of my most favoured books on Alchemy. It is not the only treasure, here…"

And soon, the two were deeply engrossed in the discussion of his collection. At some point, they had retreated to the bar to avoid further disturbances to continue their heated dispute about the cultural relevance of occult books.

"I cannot believe that you would sacrifice the whole collection of early prints of C.G. Jung's private library for a signed copy of _Easy Spells to Fool Muggles,_" Hermione said in exasperation, throwing her hands up.

"It is absolutely ridiculous and utter Muggle nonsense, not worth the paper it has been printed on! Everything of _that_ nature is unworthy," he countered, equally huffy, with a dismissive gesture. "Profane occult Muggle literature reads like _The Quibbler_; although the latter has a greater right to exist in comparison to the other rubbish." His voice was loaded with passion and his usual loftiness disappeared from his face.

Much to her surprise, Hermione could sense that he was actually enjoying their disputes as much as she was and it crossed her mind that it might have been a long time since Lucius Malfoy had spoken to another expert on the subject.

"So, it's just about the origin?"

"Precisely. Muggles that venture to write about our magic? Preposterous!"

"You sincerely neglect any connection between Muggle mysticism and our kind? Do you even read what you collect?" she voiced almost accusingly.

"I certainly do, Miss Granger, but the question is why you think it is of any relevance. What exactly did _you_ find?"

"Admittedly, nothing essential in those books, but the references _are_ there nonetheless." The witch calmed her voice as if sharing a secret. "For the origin one has to dig deep into the world of _the_ Apocrypha, if you know what I'm talking about."

"You opened the lid to a bottomless pit, a dimension which holds great secrets – great, but dangerous, Miss Granger. And it conforms to my belief that you share more with…Tom Riddle, than you are willing to admit," he said placidly, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, as though waiting for her to accept his blatant provocation.

"You – you dare to compare me to that vile…monster! Nothing defines who we are more than what we choose to do," she hissed, going completely red from both, having let his words instigate her yet again, and because she was unable to contain her anger.

"And what do you think paves the ground for our _intrinsic_ choices?"

Hermione's nostrils flared. To her, not having the upper hand in a dispute was as rare as a dragon egg in Hogwarts but Lucius Malfoy was a formidable opponent.

"You have a disgusting habit of always wanting to be right," she commented coolly, to which his smirk grew.

"Miss Granger, I could say the same of you. Furthermore, I _am_ always right," came his smooth reply with a superior tilt of his chin.

"Bah! I will prove you wrong, Mister Malfoy."

The wizard raised his chin higher. "My, my, how bold you are. Is that a challenge?"

"Yes," she said passionately and her opponent's pupils dilated.

He assessed her with a condescending glare. "Prepare to lose as I play to win," the wizard voiced calmly and downed his fourth or fifth double Scotch.

Hermione was just building up her retort, when the crew announced that the airport and highways would be closed due to the appalling weather conditions.

"Perfect," she muttered. Now she was stuck in New York with a former enemy and was not allowed to Apparate for the sake of her disguise. Her client would not be pleased at all and René would probably run like a frantic chicken in his office as soon he heard the news.

The arrival procedure would have been very chaotic if it had not been for their expensive tickets and while they were ushered to the next lounge, Hermione briefly wondered how Lucius Malfoy got hold of a passport. While she had the rare privilege of being a Muggle-born witch, pure-bloods like him certainly did not hold Muggle birth certificates.

The witch was just turning around when she saw a ground staff member approaching the wizard who was sitting like some Roman senator granting audiences.

"M-Mister Malfoy, do you have any preferences concerning your accommodations?"

Hermione did not give the wizard the chance to insult the poor lad who was simply trying to do his job and butted in confidently, naming the hotel, while Lucius Malfoy turned his head to glare at her. "Please check if there are any suites available and give the hotel manager my name, Hermione Granger." The employee nodded gladly and went off.

"You won't regret that. The hotel is divided into a part for Muggles and a part for our kind with rooms that are most certainly to your liking. The staff works with utmost discretion," she added smugly, satisfied to have carpeted him in such a way without directly insulting him.

"You are certainly pushing your boundaries," he noted with a voice so sharp and patronising it made her feel like eleven again.

"The lines are blurred somewhat in this world," she countered.

"Not with me."

"Of course."

With a sudden motion, he rose to his full height and walked towards the reception, turning the expressions of the ground staff into submissive fear. Hermione could not help but roll her eyes and followed him, completely focused on her quest of saving the Muggles from the pure-blood's wrath. Too late did she notice the person turning around the corner, speaking vigorously on his mobile phone while holding a cup of coffee in his hand, oblivious of his surroundings.

Hermione gasped in surprise as she bumped into him and the man – it was the actor from before – jumped, his cup slipping from his fingers, spilling the entire content down her blouse.

Tears shot up her eyes from the wet and painfully hot sensation on her skin. "Oh, Good Lord!" she screeched and looked down her blouse. "No!"

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" The man apologized sincerely, his face contorted in shock. "Let me – please, let me dry that up…" He used a napkin and dabbed it over her blouse, fairly clumsy in his attempt.

"No, let me." She snatched the napkin from him.

"I'm so sorry. I – Just let me get some more..." The man darted off.

Annoyed, Hermione muttered to herself "Oh, for heaven's sake! That blouse was a gift from Ginny! She's going to kill me."

"Are you a witch or not?" she heard a quiet cold voice from behind.

Angry, she turned to him and hissed, trying to keep her voice as low as possible "I can hardly take out my wand and cast a cleansing spell in front of everyone."

Lucius Malfoy wrinkled his nose and offered her his handkerchief as if he was making a huge sacrifice. "Here," he voiced grudgingly.

"Thank you very much for your generosity, Mister Malfoy," the witch said in a tone that meant the absolute opposite.

"Oh, does my civil behaviour offend you?" he growled back derisively.

Hermione, outraged by the cruel irony of his statement, retorted "Oh no, of course not! In comparison to the hospitality I've been given at your home you're behaving like a real gentleman."

The Dark wizard's cheeks reddened in anger. "Miss Granger," he warned her dangerously quiet.

"Mister Malfoy," she snarled back at him challengingly.

There it was, the moment where one false word or move was enough to escalate the situation into a disaster. But the moment went by as quick as it had arisen, both aware that they had to swallow their anger if they wanted to stay out of trouble.

Breathing heavily, Hermione took his handkerchief and continued dabbing her blouse. She was terribly aware of the other passengers' curious stares and went around the corner for more privacy.

Her skin was still burning, so did her face from the shame she felt for losing her countenance. Hermione barely noticed that the Dark wizard kept on glaring at her until the other man from before came back, quite breathlessly, with a handful of napkins.

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy," Hermione croaked dismissively with forced politeness.

The blond man answered, his tone sharp and edgy like a shard "Clean yourself up, _properly,_ and meet me in ten minutes at the exit. I refuse to stay here any longer than necessary." With a curt nod he strutted away.

"Impossible!" she exhaled as soon he was out of earshot and the actor chuckled.

"I'm really, really sorry, Miss…"

"Call me Hermione," she said obligingly, "and it's my fault that I bumped into you."

"No, no, I was carelessly pissing off my agent on the phone, so –" he rummaged in the back pocket of his jeans "– this blouse looks ruddy expensive. Please, please send me the bill, Hermione."

At first she refused but as he kept on insisting, she accepted the card and waved him goodbye, one foot already in the lady's room, when the man called from behind "Ah, I almost forgot – tell your acquaintance regards to Marius from Hugh!"

Hermione frowned and turned back, giving him a puzzled look.

"Malfoy," Hugh stated slightly confused and pointed towards the exit. "To Marius Malfoy. The same grey eyes and haughty look?" he drew an invincible circle over his face.

"What?" she blurted. "You mean _Draco_ Malfoy? His son, blond, exact copy of his father?"

Hugh furrowed his brows. "No, _Marius_ Malfoy," he insisted, "the lawyer. Dark hair, Asian-looking version of your acquaintance? Went to Dragon with him. Proud lad. He always used to wear a black ring with the family crest on it."

Hermione's face turned into a look of astonishment before her expression took on a dreamy quality. "Yes, of course. _How_ could I forget?" She shook his hands. "Thank you for everything." She beamed at him and retreated to the bathroom.

It was hard to concentrate on her cleansing spell with her head reeling, thinking about all the possibilities how _this_ Malfoy was related to the blonds, and wondering how fate could take such extreme turns within an eight-hour-trip.

_He might be a Squib, or his nephew, or his illegitimate son – Oh, Draco…_ she thought sympathetically. _If he'd only knew..._

Of course, it was utterly out of question that Lucius Malfoy touched a Muggle-woman but what if he produced a Squib? Or was it possible that the Malfoys had a Muggle branch line? That was quite an outrageous thought but was it not common practice within pure-blood families to expel Squibs and denying their sheer existence? This might be just the case!

_I have to tell Harry – No_. At second thought, it might be wiser to keep it to herself as long as she did not see that supposed Muggle-Malfoy with her own eyes. It could be a coincidence – although that was even more unlikely.

* * *

Lost in thought, Hermione was leaning against the window with her eyes closed, the glass cold on her skin. _Why am I here in the same car as Lucius Malfoy, listening to him scribbling into his notebook, as if it is the most natural thing in the world?_

She had last seen him over six years ago during the Malfoy-trials. He was a wreck but he sat in court like a king, denying claims of murder, never apologizing, always emphasising on his lack of choice. Hermione did not participate in the trials except as a witness but she knew that Kingsley and the Wizengamot were negotiating with Lucius Malfoy about his punishment and those of his wife and son. Harry's involvement as a key witness, stating that Lucius Malfoy did not engage in the final battle and pleaded Voldemort to call it off, tipped the scales to his favour, together with the fact that Narcissa Malfoy's lie enabled Harry to defeat Voldemort. Thus, what was once considered a sure life-sentence turned into a seven years wand-ban and witchcraft and wizardry prohibition. In exchange, Lucius Malfoy had to assist the Aurors in the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters and supporters of Voldemort who were still on the run. And Lucius Malfoy did well, that she knew from Harry and Kingsley who considered him their most valuable asset in that matter.

And then there was Draco who still held his father in high regard and practically worshipped him. Hermione did not understand why, considering that it was Lucius Malfoy's fault how Draco had turned out and how they had ended up. The worst thing was that Draco insisted that his father stopped being a loyal subject to Voldemort years before, although he could not even support his claim by any evidence. Needless to say that this subject always turned into a row between Hermione and Draco who usually sorted out their differences on the level of squabbles and bets.

So, was Hermione sitting in this car together with the Dark wizard because she wanted answers to satisfy her curiosity? Or was it something else? A need to hear out his reasons for acting the way he did? Why? Did she sincerely believe that there was an ounce of goodness in him only because he truly seemed to care for his family? That he was somehow redeemable? But what did she expect from him? That he would apologize or justify his actions? No, Hermione was not so naïve as to believe that. It had been six years, and she gained enough distance from her past to keep this whole matter in perspective.

Hermione stole a glance at the Dark wizard who was scratching his neck absentmindedly, switching from notebook to mobile phone and back before resuming making notes.

"May I ask you a personal question, Mister Malfoy?" she asked him thoughtfully.

For a flash of a moment he looked as if he had been caught at doing something illicit before his expression turned into his usual cool mask of indifference. He must have thought her asleep.

"You may not but I assume it won't keep you from asking," he answered brusquely.

Right he was and she took a deep breath. "Why did you want to talk to me back at the airport? Why are we even riding in the same car?"

Lucius Malfoy tucked a strand of his long blond hair behind his ear. The drifting orange streetlights exposed a serious expression on his face.

"Those _two_ questions," he emphasised, "I could also direct to you…But since you have asked first…" he added before she could protest and closed his notebook.

"Six years, Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy voiced quietly after a while of contemplation. "Within the first six years of my son's life he had learned walking and flying. His first words were 'Daddy', 'mine', and 'no'. He showed his magical capabilities at four, read his first book – _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ – when he was five, learned how to lace his shoes at the same age, and that Daddy's laboratory was strictly forbidden to enter at any time. Now he is twenty-two. His back and front are covered with up to one inch broad scars dittany essence could not heal. He still carries the Dark Mark on his left forearm. Two of his fingers on his right hand –" Lucius Malfoy pointed at his own middle and ring finger "– are paralyzed and cannot be restored. He suffers from migraine attacks ever since the punishment he received after your escape from the manor and he developed a resistance against Calming, Sleep, and Peace Draughts. But he is alive. He _is_ alive and in the past six years, he became as explorative and inquisitive like the little boy he once was. Draco is alive because of you. You and Harry Potter."

He locked her gaze and the piercing grey of his eyes flashed in the rhythm of the streetlights sweeping over his pale face. "Is it such an abstruse concept wanting to know the witch who saved my son's life when I could not?"

The silence stretched endlessly. The sharpness of his answer hit Hermione like a lightning. It was the closest thing to a thank-you she would ever receive from him. It was also the closest thing to a concession. And this threw her off balance.

A knot in her throat as big as a pebble made it hard for Hermione to swallow and she bit her lips, trying hard to keep the tears from spilling.

"Of course" the wizard said, resuming his usual haughty manner, "I can only speak for myself but I do entertain some suspicions about your reasons of engaging with me. However, it is up to you to divulge them to me."

Not expecting an answer, Lucius Malfoy opened his notebook once more and continued with his notes, the steady scratching of his pen accompanying the young witch into an exhausted slumber.

Hermione kept quiet when the wizard woke her up after they had arrived at the hotel. Neither did she say anything when he helped her out of the car and escorted her to her room. But before he left, she had murmured something to the man who was standing on the threshold with his back to her, his suspiciously smug smile remaining hidden from her.

* * *

Colbertism = A 17th century economical doctrine (or rather a set of applied measures) by Jean-Baptiste Colbert. The wealth and economy of a country should serve the state (and not mere individuals). Among many other things, Colbertism improved the French tax system and fiscal administration, and increased the export of domestic products with the intention not to lose their French gold to foreign countries by importing goods

Jean-Baptiste Colbert = French Minister of Finance under King Louis XIV. "The art of taxation consists in so plucking the goose as to obtain the largest amount of feathers with the least possible amount of hissing." Apart from saving King Louis' arse, he was a patron to many scientists and maintained a famous library

C.G. Jung's Early prints = The psychologist was a passionate collector of occult books on magic, alchemy, and kabbalah


	4. Chapter 4: Sonatas and Requiems

**A/N: Here it is - finally! That was quite a bit of work. Thank you all for being patient and for your reviews! You've made me a very happy woman. Merci beaucoup, my wonderful beta-reader LiterallyLiterary! Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.**

**Here's the music (I've created a YT playlist; check my profile for the link):**

**Lucius: Brahms Cello Sonata No. 1 in E minor, Op. 38, I. Allegro non troppo interpreted by Mstislav Rostropovich &amp; Rudolf Serkin (Brahms Cello Sonatas)**

**The next morning: G-Swing's Diga Diga Doo feat. DJ Brame**

**At the concert: W.A. Mozart, Requiem, esp. III. Sequenzia Tuba Mirum &amp; Lacrimosa (conducted by Nikolaus Harnoncourt)**

**I'd love to know how you find this chapter. R&amp;R.**

**PS: Special thanks goes to Malcheek for being such a patient reader, and nice and frequent reviewer**

* * *

"Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth." – Marcus Aurelius

* * *

**4 Sonatas and Requiems**

Lucius Malfoy II was sitting in his armchair, watching the snow falling down, coating the city in white. It almost seemed like time stood still. Only the soft ticking of the pendulum clock was the damning proof that time could not be retained; No, time cooled, time clarified. It took him four years to clear his head. It needed a divorce and a temporary withdrawal from the Wizarding world to admit he made a lot of wrong and very few right decisions. But only five minutes after signing the divorce certificate sufficed to have realised that this marked the beginning of a new chapter – one in which he was accountable only for himself. And for the first time in his life, he could finally breathe freely.

But frankly, Lucius had hated every step of the humiliating process of a divorce. He also hated to have lost what little money was left in his once so brim-full vaults. At least it had put an end to the trying rows he had with Narcissa. However, it was a resounding slap par excellence when she decided to leave the continent. Because, if she had stayed, Draco would not have chosen to follow her and commence his studies in a country whose culture did not deserve to be called one. In turn, it would not have been necessary for him to travel in such a degrading manner just to see his son.

The Dark wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not sure what was more demeaning; travelling by plane instead of using Portkeys, or maintaining a civil behaviour towards that cheeky witch who was accountable for this new ridiculous elf-protection law. The only thing he knew for sure was that both things made him want to punch the next best stupid face like the one of that particularly silly Muggle-president he saw in the Muggle-papers.

To make matters even worse; the witch even made him enjoy their disputes.

Was he losing his edge?

Hermione Granger's mere sight evoked unwanted images of his past and those horrid feelings he tried to banish from his mind day after day: Imprisonment, humiliation, defeat. They stood for his cell in Azkaban, the loss of Armand Malfoy's wand, and genuflection before a half-blood. They were etched in his mind, poisoning every happy memory he kept dear. It was the mantra of his nightmares. Imprisonment, humiliation, defeat; his cursed body, his tarnished name, his wrong choices.

The menacing voice of his own father echoed in the back of Lucius' mind._ 'Do not disappoint me, Lucius.'_

"Fuck you," it slipped from his mouth, secretly wishing he had spat it in his father's face the last time that old dragon had felt the need to criticise him.

_Enough._

Lucius reached for a small and shiny looking contrivance that played music (a gift from his son) and let himself be carried away by the full and rich sounding sonatas of Johannes Brahms. Rostropovich's cello playing held so much passion and warmth, wisdom and vigour, maturity and self-assurance, that it created a sound of such beauty it would have moved Lucius to tears if he had any to shed in the first place.

Brahms did not defile his compositions with superfluous notes. No, they were pure, they were simple, and simplicity was ultimate beauty. But as it often happens, common folk seldom recognized genius and even less appreciated it. Brahms' compositions were wasted on humanity.

However, the music was not able to untie the growing knot in Lucius' stomach whenever something or someone reminded him of the fact that he got stripped of his rights to use magic. Being wandless, shunned, and divorced; the only logical conclusion was to withdraw from the Wizarding world. It became a lonely and dangerous place for him, especially if he could not defend himself.

But otherwise, who was he to complain? He did not suffer from any magical outbursts lately and neither old enemies, nor former allies appeared out of thin air, trying to kill him. Even the bossy Muggle-born was compliant, taking into consideration their past history as enemies.

Lucius wondered why Hermione Granger was disguised as a Muggle. Did she work for the Ministry, appointed to enforce the International Statute of Secrecy in the Muggle world? That must be the case, he concluded, otherwise she would not have reacted so cautiously during their first exchange of discourtesies.

Wizards and witches working under protection of the International Confederation of Wizards were usually very careful about disclosing their diplomatic status, as it allowed them to act above the local law in order to enforce the International Statute of Secrecy. Naturally, local Law Enforcement and affiliated officials tended to hate or envy them to the core. And those who were neither subject to the first nor the latter usually tried to win them over. They were valuable assets, able to accommodate clients with indispensable services: Smuggling, intelligence, lobbying – just to name a few. Needless to say, some of those diplomats owed him their humble fortune.

As for Hermione Granger, Lucius decided that she definitely was the raw diamond he suspected her to be. And her brown eyes, which unabashedly mirrored her ambition and intellect, intrigued him to the same extent as her other traits caused discontent. But it was unbearable to watch so much potential go down the drain; she was being wasted on donkeywork for the ministry (who obviously chose to ignore her potential), and she was far too excluded from the Wizarding world to gain real influence. But what did he expect from such hypocrites?

_What a daft, incompetent bunch of imbeciles_, Lucius thought.

All the better for him.

But enough of her; He was supposed to meet Draco by now. The patriarch missed his son dearly and resented the fact that Draco had spent Christmas with Narcissa. Then again, Draco had also disappointed him greatly by his eccentric choice of study and it left Lucius no choice but to axe his son's allowance and revoke his warrant of the family vaults and accounts. It was a matter of principle. Naturally, Narcissa still spoiled him rotten instead of giving their offspring the opportunity to solve his issues on his own.

Lucius put aside the electronic device and stood up. With a swift movement, he unbuttoned his nightshirt and studied his reflection in the mirror. Several of his magical scars were beginning to fade thanks to the new ointment he had been using. But most of those angry, purple-glowing streaks across his chest appeared still as fresh and hideous as they were since the day he had received them from the Dark Lord; the older ones for his failed attempt to attain the prophecy; the newer and nastier ones for the escape of the hostages. Now, his bare upper body was a sight so ghastly even Narcissa could not bear, especially because half of those scars were supposed to be hers if Lucius had not intervened.

In the end it did not matter; she continued to hold him responsible for the transpired atrocities.

She was right, however begrudgingly Lucius admitted the fact. Merlin, she was right.

Lucius dipped his fingers into the jar of ointment and carefully applied the thick green paste onto his chest and left forearm. At least the Dark Mark was beginning to fade—not drastically, but it didn't matter as long as he was able to see the difference.

* * *

Light kissed her eyelids, waking her out of sleep, and she breathed in the refreshing scent of newly washed linen. It was peaceful.

_Too peaceful_, she thought suspiciously as her gaze wandered to the door.

And Hermione remembered.

"Malfoy," she muttered bemusedly, almost dropping to the floor as she reached for her bag.

"Am I a witch or not?" she scolded herself, beginning a text after she summoned her mobile phone.

_'What's blond, hates Muggles, and sits on a plane with a former enemy? Draco, WHAT in the name of the whole Wizarding world is your FATHER doing on a plane?!'_

Draco's reply came instantly. _'OMG! You're stranded too? You're one lucky witch. Ha. Ha. Did he behave? You have Percy bloody Weaselhead to thank for that, who, by the way seems very determined to deny all of my father's Portkey applications. But don't tell me you're staying both at the same hotel!'_

The witch groaned._ 'Oh I will, I will…Your father's civil like a cat among pixies…and YES we are, just so you know…Btw did you give him a mobile phone? He uses it like a Muggle! I barely managed to keep a straight face.'_

_'How I'd wish to see you both jump down each other's throats! And of course I did (who else?). Does he use it often? Wasn't sure if he would. Was supposed to be a joke'_

Hermione shook her face, not a tad surprised at his lack of empathy, and replied _'HE showed ME pictures of his book collection on it (btw, thank you for that beautiful notebook)'_

_'WTF…Was he sloshed? (Don't mention it. Thx for the chocolate - you just saved my life - again)'_

_'My pleasure! He definitely knows how to cane it but I'm not really sure if he was. Probably. I mean, why else would he talk to me?'_

This time, it took Draco a while until he replied._ 'Just be careful what you're telling him. Who knows what he's up to. Tell me ASAP if the situation gets out of hand'_

Offended by his message, she answered him defiantly _'Thx but I can handle him PERFECTLY well'_

_'Alright, but as tempting it seems, just DON'T hex my father to oblivion'_

_'Fine, as long as he doesn't give me a reason to'_

Assuming it was the end of their correspondence, she prepared for the day, settling for a Muggle version of casual elegance.

Her hand was already on the doorknob when she received another message from the younger Malfoy. _'Hermione, what's a bloody vacuum cleaner?_

The witch sniggered amused_. 'It's used for cleaning floors. Why?'_

_'Bcs my new roommate (what an oaf) wibbles sth about cleaning up the room once a week with that monstrosity. As if I'd EVER clean! But I can hardly tell him 'don't bother, I borrow my mother's HOUSE-ELF to char for me''_

_'XD Downright preposterous!'_

_'Oh, Granger! Dad's already corrupting you. Poor house-elves just lost their patroness. Never thought you'd bend so easily'_

_'Ah, put a sock in it or I'm going to sic the house-elves on you!' _She countered his provocation.

_'That's exactly what I mean!'_

_'Siiiilence!'_

_'Wahahahahahahaha'_

Hermione shut her phone and smiled widely – a smile that died instantly the moment she read Draco's next message.

_'I know my father's not easy to handle (although you said otherwise) but he was supposed to spend his birthday with me today. I might ask for too much but as your friend (and we've both been through hell and made it back together) please don't let me down and be a KIND surrogate. And in case you want to weasel yourself out of it: I want to redeem the favour for your lost bet.'_

Hermione screeched "What? NO! You manipulative FERRET!"

* * *

She was not surprised to find Lucius Malfoy in the dining hall, reading a copy of the_ New Amsterdam Post_, the local Wizarding newspaper.

It was awkward. First, she was not sure if she should disregard him but as he noticed her, she could hardly ignore him any longer, and when he indicated her to join him, it would have been childish not to.

With the newest issue of the _New York Times_ under her arm (the others were all taken), Hermione joined him and both broke their fast in silence, which felt about as comfortable as taking the NEWT exams. Draco's request hanging like the sword of Damocles above her head did not improve the situation. Whatever possessed Draco to ask for such an outrageous favour? It must have been one of his cruel jokes again, she assumed peevishly, and decided that she was not going to take any bets with him from now on.

The witch was reading the same sentence for about the sixth time when she gave up and huffed, stealing glances at the headline of Lucius Malfoy's newspaper instead.

_DEATH EATER CAPTURED AFTER ATTEMPTED SUICIDE_

Lucius Malfoy shifted his attention away from the papers, giving her an once-over and drily asked, "Like what you see?"

Hermione ignored his question and inquired, "Who?"

"Thorfinn Rowle. Potter caught him in Iceland. One less to worry about," he stated matter-of-factly. Then he sighed and added, sounding almost convincingly concerned, "What a shame the Rowle-line ends with him. Another pure-blood family extinguished."

The witch frowned and decided to ignore that last comment too. "Why would he try to kill himself? The Ministry doesn't use Dementors anymore," she said, earning a condescending gaze from the Dark wizard in return.

"I'm aware that you're ignorant to certain aspects of our world, but does it really escape your notice that –"

"Hold on!" she interrupted rudely. "Rowle? Wasn't a Damocles Rowle Minister? And didn't he turn Azkaban into a prison? Oh…how ironic…"

"I would say cruel," Lucius Malfoy corrected her and Hermione grunted in disbelief.

"It doesn't suit you playing upset," she told him. "Everyone knows it was your intelligence that led to his apprehension. Who else would know such things?"

"You dare to imply that his attempted suicide was my fault?" Lucius asked, his voice flaring up.

"Of course not," she answered pointedly, feeling a tad ashamed, and asked conciliatorily "Was he your friend?"

"He was a henchman," the wizard answered brusquely while his expression remained stone cold.

"Ah." Hermione raised her eyebrows and resumed reading. How silly of her to think he would call someone below his social class his friend. Do people like him even have friends? Probably not.

"So, Mister Malfoy, any plans for today since the airports and highways are still closed?" Hermione asked him as casually as she could manage after she had finished her newspaper.

"Is this an interrogation? Because if it isn't, I don't see any need for answering," the pure-blood said, to which Hermione rolled her eyes, annoyed.

"In case you didn't notice; I'm trying to make this situation a little bit less awkward than it is, Mister Malfoy."

He folded the newspaper together and said drily "Well, you're doing a bad job."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "At least I'm trying!" she exclaimed indignant. This man was unbearable! "You know what? Forget it. I've got work to do."

She attempted to stand up when she heard a small chuckle from his direction.

"What?" she hissed and gave him a sharp look.

Lucius Malfoy sighed in amusement and ran his hand through his hair. "Miss Granger, let's keep things civil. Do remain seated, and take my newspaper you've been dying to read – in exchange for yours. Accept the situation for what it is and take it with dignity. The alternative of ignoring one another would be far more discomforting than the status quo."

With a swift movement he pinched the newspaper from her and began to read.

"You are enjoying this, do you?" she murmured, her cheeks burning from embarrassment and secretly wishing that the ground would open and swallow her up.

"Oh yes, I do," he said smugly.

"This is absurd."

"The only thing that is absurd is your demeanour and that this journalist – " Lucius Malfoy spat the last word and made a dismissive gesture towards the newspaper "– accuses Nicolaus Harnoncourt of being a square conductor."

"You listen to classical music?" she asked surprised, her eyes widened in incredulity.

"You know Harnoncourt?" the wizard answered in the same manner.

"He's a Muggle."

"So what?"

"He's a _Muggle_," she emphasised, still holding onto her belief that he must have mistaken the conductor for a wizard.

"It's _classical music_ – the only kind of music that has a raison d'être. Name one conductor of our kind who deserves to be called one," Lucius Malfoy challenged her.

"There's none. But still…it's…"

"What?" Lucius Malfoy tilted his chin proudly and drawled, "Did you assume that after I had escaped death and anew imprisonment, I would dwell in the dark of my house like a wounded dragon in its lair, bullying my house-elves, and denying myself any pleasures life has to offer?"

"Well…yes," Hermione answered bluntly.

"Then you couldn't be more wrong, Miss Granger. I am a man of opportunities, not a man of bigotry. I am going to attend Harnoncourt's performance of Mozart's Requiem this evening, in fact. And I can assure you; I am going to enjoy it," he declared with proud defiance and added, overbearingly arrogant, "but of course, how would someone like you be able to truly comprehend Mozart's ingenuity?"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," she derisively countered. "I reckon you aren't even aware of the fact that Eybler and Süssmayr composed almost half of Mozart's Requiem. And even if you're telling the truth about going; It's already sold out. Not even you would get a ticket –" she narrowed her eyes "– but of course, how would someone like you be able to understand that your name has no weight in this world?"

Lucius Malfoy gave her a piercingly challenging look and said coolly, "Seven o'clock, sharp, at the entrance." His eyes meandered over her jumper as he stood up and added, "in proper attire. I prefer seeing you losing with style."

Just like that, he turned and strutted out of the dining hall, her _New York Times_ tucked under his arm.

Hermione was tempted to throw a cup after him if it were not for that inner voice that suddenly sounded suspiciously like Draco.

* * *

At seven o'clock, sharp, the sight of Hermione Granger in a fitted, cobalt blue dress, descending from the stairs of the entrance hall, took Lucius slightly off balance. Not that he was complaining; the cut was a liberty he quite approved of.

However, she must have noticed his lapse and snapped. "Oh, don't tell me the dress is too short! It's just a palm above my knees."

His gaze flowed down the length of her legs, maybe lingering a moment or two too long over her calves before darting back.

"Don't be silly," he answered coolly and allowed himself to wonder how he could have ever intended to let a witch with such legs die.

Adhering most painstakingly to the rules of etiquette as he let her pass through the door and helped her inside the car, Lucius took the opportunity to get a most discrete glimpse of her behind.

_It's the little pleasures that matter, old chap_, he thought contented. _Happy birthday._

There he was, the Austrian conductor, cellist, writer, pioneer, and coryphaeus of historically informed performances, who handled compositions with such respect, care, and passion it would have made Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart blush like a maiden on her wedding night: Johannes Nicolaus Count de la Fontaine and d'Harnoncourt-Unverzagt, offspring of late Eberhard de la Fontaine Count d'Harnoncourt-Unverzagt and his second wife, late Ladislaja Countess of Meran and Freiin Brandhofen, thus, making him a direct descendant of the Holy Emperor Francis I. And the convicted ex-Death Eater and former lieutenant of Lord Voldemort, defector, businessman, and temporary wandless Dark wizard, Lucius Malfoy II, offspring and patriarch of the ancient pure-blood family Malfoy, thus, making him a direct descendant of Lucius Malfoy I, an unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Queen Elizabeth I, struggled with tearing his eyes from Hermione Granger's profile, daughter of dentists. She was a living legend, a war-hero and best friend of The Boy Who Lived (Twice), and one of the brightest and most skilful witches of her age, with a legendary right hand that had once slapped Draco Malfoy, son and heir to aforementioned Dark wizard, right into his face. It was rumoured that Draco Malfoy still felt the offended cheek sting occasionally on bad weather days.

But none of those things mattered to Lucius, who was continually engrossed in the sight of Hermione Granger. She was transfixed by the music, breathing heavily until she temporarily abandoned that necessity during the _Tuba Mirum_ in the third sequence. The witch embraced the sweet sounds only a true admirer of classical music was able to, and Lucius could swear he heard a sigh escape her lips during the _Lacrimosa_. He was sure that if he had held his hand on her chest, he would have found her heart throbbing furiously. Even the air surrounding them grew tense and started filling up with the buzz of a new sort of magic that emanated from the witch's body. She was so young, full of life and power, and he realised with growing discomfort that he _envied_ her for the capability of displaying emotions with such raw sincerity without appearing weak, whereas he sealed his heart away in a crystal box, hiding his pleasures as if they were illicit.

Lucius had to close his eyes.

"It was a truly amazing experience," Hermione Granger whispered long after the final applause had subsided and turned to him, her expressive brown eyes hard to withstand.

"It was. It truly was, Miss Granger," he said, unintentionally ambiguous, his natural aura of superiority unusually tame, their argument in the morning completely forgotten. "Shall we?"

It escaped his attention that he just offered her his hand as years of conditioning in etiquette trained his body to move before his mind said otherwise. However, the sudden touch of her soft hand scrunched up his insides, shot up his pulse and Lucius thought his heart was going to explode. But then her hand was lost, the moment gone, and the magical energy absorbed and churning inside his body. The wizard knew immediately that he was bordering on one of his magical seizures again. He had to be very, very careful.


	5. Chapter 5: Unhealthy Blends

**A/N: _Vielen Dank_ Carissime for Beta-reading! Thank you for your reviews; They're a great motivation! Oh, and Harry Potter belongs to JKR.**

**Here's the music (check my profile for the playlist-link):**

**At the bar: Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho by Grant Green**

**In the park: Never Say No &amp; Demimonde Main Title (Penny Dreadful Soundtrack)**

**Read &amp; Review,_ s'il vous plaît. Merci beaucoup_ :-)**

**PS: This chapter is for Eclipse000, who is such a kind and frequent reviewer, and has a good taste in music :-)**

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"The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions." - Leonardo da Vinci

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**5 Unhealthy Blends**

Judging from the way he leaned back into the car seat, Lucius Malfoy was looking more relaxed than she had ever seen. Moreover, he even seemed to be more at ease than her, with his eyes closed and his usual expression of superiority smoothened out, as if he was still debauching in the divine music of before. It was a sight so alien, she had nearly mistaken him for another person.

"Do you still consider me an enemy?" he asked Hermione out of the blue.

"It's a question I find hard to answer. But would I go to a concert with an enemy?" Hermione admitted honestly and more to herself than to him.

"I feel tempted to say no."

"Oh," she said drily, "Spoken like a true politician."

"The exertion of cautiousness is a conduct most preferable in such situations. But how goes the Muggle saying? _Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?_" Lucius Malfoy responded, his voice carrying a hint of sarcasm.

She was almost impressed. "Considering your colourful past, it must be rather hard to draw the line between friend and foe."

"The line was always clear. I had just switched sides."

"Indisputably and thoroughly, if it includes diving into the Muggle world," Hermione scoffed.

"I would call it a self-imposed exposure to the detested unknown," he corrected her.

"And going to a concert with me?"

"Mere amusement."

Hermione clenched her jaw. Really, after all what had happened, that arrogant git still considered her as too insignificant to be taken seriously?

"Well, I'm tempted to say it's the other way round," the witch said remotely spiky.

"Hm…" his mouth twitched, "that's an interesting observation."

The car came to a halt and as soon they were in the lobby, Hermione voiced bossily "Mister Malfoy, don't play me for a fool and imply that you expose yourself to this world regularly. You blend in about as well as a purple wolf amidst a flock of sheep."

The wizard and pulled off his leather gloves and drawled "You assume me unable to act on my own behalf to explore what this world offers and claim that I stand out like – er – a purple wolf?"

"Just look at you. Your mere presence in this world is already a violation of the International Statute of Secrecy," Hermione taunted and scrutinized him from head to toe. His hair glistened with drops of molten snow, as did his black coat he just unclasped, revealing a splendid, dark, and high-collared wizard-suit underneath, which accentuated all his physical assets – not that he had something to conceal in the first place.

_Oh, stop it! _A sobering slap was what she needed.

"Miss Granger, it is my firm believe that my ability to blend in is not diminished by my looks – au contraire," Lucius Malfoy added unperturbedly and smoothed his hair while his glance was following two pretty women passing by who were ogling him blatantly before they disappeared into the crowded hotel bar. He turned back to Hermione and raised an eyebrow to emphasise his point.

_What a peacock, _Hermione thought, put her hands on her hips and huffed. "Only because some hussies stripped you bare with their eyes, doesn't mean you blend in. You may think of yourself as being adaptive but as I see it, you're still the supremacist who intimidates everyone around you with your demeanour. Just like in the lounge."

"So, so," the wizard sneered indignantly and flared his nostrils, giving her his trademark glare. "You feel intimidated by my mere presence. Is that why you accompanied me? To prove yourself otherwise?"

"How dare you," she growled, her eyes narrowed to slits.

With a smug smirk on his face, as though he had hit the mark, Lucius Malfoy helped her out of the coat, invading her comfort zone in the attempt. Hermione allowed him to since protesting would just have proven his point.

"You've lost, by the way. So, what wager do you have to offer?" the wizard said.

"We never agreed to place stakes," Hermione retorted curtly and turned swiftly to hide the insecurity in her eyes of which she knew was there and made a beeline for the Wizarding passageway.

She was already entering the secret code on the door as a young receptionist hushed over, explaining sheepishly that one of the other guests blocked the way with a miscarried charm. Although the ward-casters from the ministry were already on their way, he expected the passageway to be ready not until an hour or two. However, as compensation, he offered them drinks on the house from the hotel bar.

"No problem," Hermione replied sympathetically, turned to Lucius Malfoy, jerked her head towards the bar and said challengingly "A perfect opportunity to show how well you blend in, don't you agree?"

Lucius Malfoy dropped their coats into the receptionist's arms without so much as looking at him. "I don't expect them to have an acceptable assortment of whisky," he said haughtily.

"The only way to verify that hypothesis is by empirical research" she retorted, and gave the flustered receptionist an apologetic smile, asking him kindly to hang their coats in the cloakroom. The lad's face turned into a deep shade of tomato-red and he asked her for an autograph, to which he earned a most disdainful look from Lucius Malfoy in return.

The dim bar, merely lightened by sparkling chandeliers hanging down from the high ceiling, was crowded with posh looking people who seemed to take themselves far too seriously and were far too self-important to truly enjoy the live jazz music and the fantastic hors-d 'œuvres. After engaging in a short but enlightening conversation with the barman, Hermione found out that there was a semi-private party going on, which was hosted by some local socialite whose only accomplishment was to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth and whose expertise only reached as far as to the trade of being a son – Hence, an environment not entirely foreign to Lucius Malfoy who was studying a large expressionist painting besides a head-high fireplace. Despite Hermione's previous assumption, he fitted well into the scene of self-dramatising Muggle individualists, although he appeared to be the least phoney of all – and that was saying something.

While waiting for the drinks, Hermione could watch an attractive but alarmingly skinny woman approaching the Dark wizard, and deducing from her body language, hoping for more than just an exchange of words; Fluttering her eyelids, brushing his arm (of course unintentionally), tilting her head, playing with her hair. She might have scored with any other heterosexual man but irony was gracing her with its presence, taking the piss out of her for sheer amusement as the wizard watched her efforts with unconcealed contempt until he brought himself to reply. It must have been something distinct; The woman blushed to her roots and stalked away with an angry expression written on her face, whereas the wizard turned his attention back to the painting with the same manner as if he had just managed to squash a midge.

Hermione sniggered gleefully at the delicious scene, took the drinks and sidled between the clusters of people. A man blocked her way and she nearly bumped into him, forcing her to make a detour. She was already by the fireplace when someone else accidentally shoved her sideward right into the blond wizard.

"Having difficulties blending in?" Lucius Malfoy asked mockingly as he caught her by her shoulders to steady her.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity and his surprisingly gentle grasp, she protested a tad too vigorously and held his glass in front of him "Of course not!"

He sniffed at the liquor suspiciously and Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's a Laphroaig Triple Wood. They did not have a Bowmore Tempest but I bet it suits your taste."

_Your son certainly fancies it, _Hermione added in her mind and pursed her lips.

The wizard gave her a sceptical look but seemed satisfied enough and raised his glass in salutation. "To what, Miss Granger?"

Hermione took a deep breath, choking her pride and said "What about 'happy birthday', Mister Malfoy?"

_There you go, Draco. You owe me one_, she thought and mirrored the father's action, watching him intently.

"How _noble_ of you," Lucius Malfoy remarked acerbic and tossed the whisky down.

Hermione bit her lips and downed her own drink, relieved at the numbing sensation on her tongue while the manifold tastes of the whisky seemed to explode on her taste buds.

She should have made it a double – for both of them, the witch concluded at the sight of his cheeks glowing a healthy shade of pink. It was simply absurd to see the former right hand of Voldemort actually blushing from something as innocent as a congratulation. If she had known beforehand that it was that easy to confound Dark wizards, she would have sent Voldemort a bloody five foot high birthday cake with a naked witch on Marilyn Monroe Polyjuice jumping out of it, serenading him Happy Birthday.

Suddenly, a woman squeezed herself through the crowd and pushed the witch onto the Dark wizard's frame as she brushed against Hermione from behind.

"Oh, heavens!" the witch exclaimed, trying to remain casual while she became disturbingly aware of her hand pressing against Lucius Malfoy's firm chest in a defensive manner. "Did those people never learn to apologize or excu–?"

He seized her glass and moved her most gracefully in dancing position. Nonplussed by the sensations of his tingling touch and his terribly alluring scent, the only thing her head managed in that instant was to look up – just to find him peering down at her most challengingly.

"Play nicely," Lucius Malfoy insisted with his silky voice and forced her with assertive steps to move along. "Or are you too intimidated?"

"You wish," Hermione rasped defiantly. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to free herself but the blend of his stunning physical presence and her urge not to show any weakness, held her in place.

That twisted, pretentious bastard definitely intended to humiliate her by rubbing his alleged superiority in. _But Merlin, that man can dance_, Hermione had to admit grudgingly, while he was taking the lead with natural ease and grace. Lucius Malfoy dictated stance, pace, steps, movements, and directions and her body reacted to each of his physical commands flawlessly and fluidly without objection. She did not consider herself a particularly good dancer, but he made her look like she was.

"You are disturbingly compliant. Is the alcohol already going to your head?" Lucius Malfoy said in a mixture of mockery and content.

"How could I possibly deny a dance to a man on his birthday? It would be cruel," she said in a low, almost sensual voice. And as if Lucius Malfoy sensed how his proximity affected her, he started to draw tiny circles behind her back with his thumb, to which Hermione's looked up again – shocked and bewildered.

"I see, your slander is getting more refined," he drawled and whirled her around.

"I learn by example," Hermione retorted as soon as their hands resumed their grip on each other's shoulders. Their hips brushed against each other for a fraction of a second before he abruptly changed direction – too suddenly for her legs, she realised. But once more, it seemed that Lucius Malfoy knew exactly what was going on and added pressure on the right places to keep their limbs in sync.

Lucius Malfoy's grip grew firmer as their gaze connected again. His captivating eyes glowed in the dim light with savage intensity, almost as if they were turning golden – well, they definitely turned Hermione's insides into liquid fire and that was a circumstance she would not have admitted even under torture. But it was not merely his physicality that affected her; it was his aura and the vigour he emanated. No wonder Voldemort chose him as his right hand; he was an overwhelmingly confident, charismatic, and masculine figure – a natural born leader.

"What kind of upbringing produces wizards like you? It could not possibly be considered normal," it slipped out from her.

"Nothing a Malfoy could not bear, Miss Granger, but geared to groom sons and heirs strong enough not to be crushed under the weight of responsibilities tied to the name."

_If your Galleons are too heavy, feel free to donate them to S.P.E.W_, Hermione almost wanted to say but settled for something less snappy. "Well, at least it taught you how to dance properly."

Lucius Malfoy chuckled, well aware of her deliberate understatement, and countered, "Whereas yours merely sharpened your tongue instead of your manners…"

"Oh, war was a lopsided teacher," said Hermione casually and squeezed his shoulder to emphasise her subtle side blow. In response, the Dark wizard drew her closer to him, seemingly determined to show her _who_ was in charge and _who_ was dominating.

"And yet, despite being on the winning side, despite being considered a war-heroine, I find you _here_," Lucius Malfoy growled maliciously.

"So are you," the witch rasped, "But _you_ don't belong here."

He swung her around, increasing the pace to the rhythm of the new song, his taut thighs now brushing against hers with every step, sending frissons of heat to the very centre of her physical being.

"Nor do you," he drawled confidently as ever, "In fact, I think you don't even like it here although you try hard. And I wonder…what keeps you from our world?"

"I'm not going to discuss that matter with you," she said, her voice quivering lightly from fear, anger, and – was it arousal? God, she was disgusted with herself.

"Oh, I've figured out enough," Lucius Malfoy sneered while firmly upholding the proximity he had set. "You took on some kind of fieldwork post because you were simply fed up with the hypocrisy and persistent corruption reigning the ministry. Despite your excellent skills, impeccable reputation, and social ties, you didn't achieve nearly as much as you wanted to and all of your efforts and the energy you had invested was for nought; The Wizengamot won't pass reforms unless it serves their own interests, discriminating laws have yet to be revoked, and promotions are determined by favouritism rather than skill. It doesn't matter how good you are and how hard you work because the people _in charge_ don't forget you're Muggle-born; They won't accept you and it angers you. You're frustrated. You're licking the wounds on your pride – do _not_ avert your eyes!" he hissed as she tried, "I want to see if I was right."

All blood drained from her face_. Do not admit defeat!_ It ran through Hermione's head and tightened her grasp on him, anger and who knew what else seething underneath her skin. The devil read her like an open book.

"Ah, I am," Lucius Malfoy said triumphantly.

"It seems you spent an awful lot of thoughts on me," Hermione sneered back in a weak attempt to save her face.

"No, not in particular."

_You bastard!_ Hermione wanted to scream at him.

"Mister Malfoy, if you're such an observant man, how come you ended up making so many wrong choices?" she retorted icily, "Ah, let me answer for you – cowardice."

Lucius Malfoy grabbed her roughly by the nape, yet still not ceasing the lead, but Hermione refused to show any sign of fear and kept on moving in unison with him. She swore herself not to concede defeat, no matter how oppressive he was, or that he was nearly driving her over the edge by dancing in such a shamelessly erotic manner. No, she refused to be subject to his manipulations. She was a bloody war-veteran. _She_ had her wand within reach and_ she_ was the one in charge, not _him_.

"You are one lucky Muggle-born girl…that I'm sentenced and wandless…" Lucius Malfoy voiced dangerously calm while his cold grey eyes bore into hers violently as his tight grasp hindered her from moving her head.

"Your intimidations don't impress me," Hermione hissed back. It was an outright lie but to emphasise her point, she pressed fully against him, her temple connecting with his cheek. Every draw of breath squeezed her breasts up against his chest but Lucius Malfoy kept on wielding their bodies in perfect rhythm to the music. Their fluid movements rubbed cloth and flesh against one another, enticing all her senses, and dazing Hermione to such an extent that her world shrunk to the confines of the hyper realistic sensations on her body. Every muscle of his she felt on hers, and the longer they danced, the more she became acquainted with his physics up to the point of being able to render the anatomy of his whole body. Yes, every inch of his impressive but daunting body, which he wielded like a seasoned warrior his weapon; accomplished, with flawless elegance but calculated audacity.

Her heart throbbed fiercely – he must have felt it too – but she continued nevertheless, her voice something between a purr and a hiss. "Don't underestimate me, Mister Malfoy, and stop calling me a girl. I broke into Lestrange's vault and tricked that dragon down there; Bloody hell, we even escaped on the back of it. I've held that dirty beetle Rita Skeeter hostage in a jar for those nasty articles she had written about Harry and me. I've founded Dumbledore's Army and battled you in the Department of Mysteries, keeping you from taking the prophecy. I've escaped your grasp twice and used a time-turner to save Buckbeak and Sirius Black from their fate – yes, Harry and me," she added as the Dark wizard clenched his jaw. "I've helped freeing our world from the iron grasp of _your_ former Lord. The one you, Mister Malfoy, knelt before."

Hermione brushed a lose strand of his silky hair aside and said with the softest voice she could manage, "Tell me, do your knees still hurt?"

Both panted heavily, the air practically humming from tension. She knew instantly that she had whipped him hard – Too hard. They have gone too far Hermione realised, and as if he had reached the same conclusion, the heat of their bodies merged into one angry fire. Then, just as the sensation started to turn into actual real physical pain, he released her from his grasp and stormed out.

_The face of a coward_, she thought, staring at the back of his head and raised her chin triumphantly. But he would not escape that easily. Fate gave her this opportunity and she planned to seize it.

With renewed strength and inflamed self-assurance, Hermione followed him outside in the direction of the private park attached to the hotel.

She dismissed the cold, which gnawed on her bones like acid and tried to shield her eyes from the snow as she voiced accusingly behind him "What is a man like you doing in this world after you had tried so hard to eradicate everything of that nature from the Wizarding world?"

The wizard turned and glared at her with such animosity, she almost felt his anger intruding her mind. "Don't stick your insolent nose in matters which do not concern you. I don't need to justify myself!" he bellowed, while holding his side as if he was suffering from muscle pain.

"What?" she retorted angrily, ignoring his strange posture and the shudders that were running down her spine from his frightening voice. "Is this what you truly think? Not to your family, not to the people, who suffered? Me, who was held captive in your own home? I deserve answe–"

"Watch your tongue, Mudblood!" the wizard cut her off. "I will have none of it!"

"You bloody will!" The venomous bubble of broiling anger in her finally burst. "And _never_ call me Mudblood again! You made life living hell for us! You tortured people! People died at your orders! You almost sacrificed your only son for you own gain, for fuck's sake! You had watched Bellatrix torturing me, and you did _nothing_ although you knew it was wrong! Don't deny it, I saw the fear and disgust in your eyes. And now you act as if nothing hap-"

Lucius Malfoy's hands darted out with unbelievable speed, clasping her jaw, hurting her as his fingers sank deep into her skin. "You!" Lucius Malfoy spat, "_How dare you!_ You don't have _any_ idea what I was going through! What I'm still go-" a fierce growl escaped his mouth, his face contorted with pain and his usually steel-grey eyes suddenly clouded with raging, golden glowing whirls.

"Let go off me!" She screamed shrilly, trying to push off his hands but they were blazing hot, the touch setting off ferocious, sparking magical surges that bolted through her entire body down to her toes. It felt terribly wrong, chaotic and abrasive.

"Oh no!" Hermione gasped as she realised that the growing tension surrounding them was nothing less but pure and raw magical energy emanating from him. The witch never stood a chance as the void between them disappeared, a powerful force yanking her down into the depths of Lucius Malfoy's mind, swallowing her entire being.

_'How can you live with yourself, Lucius?' _she heard the hollow voice of Lord Voldemort deriding Lucius while he was screaming and wailing in a prison cell, clasping his head. He desperately wanted to cry but he felt so drained and empty – A loud crack of splintering wood ripped the memory apart – '_Thousand years gone'_ Lord Voldemort hissed and tossed the remnants of a long wand at Lucius' feet. The sight of it pressed all the air out of his lungs. He felt so ashamed, so vulnerable, lost, and humiliated. Suddenly, Lucius was being slapped. _'Was it worth it?'_ cried Narcissa accusingly, her tear-streamed face full of hate. Hermione knew Lucius wanted to yell_ 'No!' _but the words never came_._ Instead, she could sense the smell of wet grass and a green bolt shred the memory apart, hitting Cedric Diggory right into his chest. His dead face turned into that of a vigorous old man with short grey hair and adamant grey eyes; He was sitting in a high-backed chair in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor and bellowed '_You should never have joined them, you utter fool!'_ He threw his glass on the wall behind Lucius. _'Be lucky he's gone!' _And the sound of her own cry echoed through the hallway, overlapping with Lucius' memory of Draco in his arms, the smell of ash and blood in his hair overwhelming her senses. '_Alive, alive' _Lucius' tears were finally running freely –

Hermione was pushed out of Lucius' mind, her chest exploding from pain in the attempt and she started screaming in agony, feeling her own mind cracking open like a walnut. Bellatrix Crutiated her over and over, yelling _'lying, filthy Mudblood!' _with her ear-shattering voice, breaking the scene into pieces. Hermione was altering her parents' memories. She tried hard to keep the tears from spilling but it was in vain; Hermione cried for her parents, her lost childhood, her home, her future – Voldemort's voice filled her head – _'Harry Potter is dead,' _he shouted triumphantly while Hagrid carried Harry's body to the entrance of Hogwarts. The feeling of complete defeat washed over Hermione. It was over. Death was imminent and inevitable. _Embrace it,_ said her inner voice, _and die a true Gryffindor_. Suddenly she was standing in front of Dobby's grave, sand trickling down between her fingers as she looked down. _'Here Lies Dobby, A Free Elf'_. Yes, he was free, she thought proudly, Dobby was free. The salty smell of the sea filled her lungs – Hermione pierced a Basilisk fang into a golden cup but the hollow voice kept on whispering maliciously _'You'll never be part of us. Never, Mudblood. Go back where you came from.' – 'No!' _She yelled defiantly_. 'This is my home!'_ – Her body was shuddering as she found herself in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Draco was on his knees, hunched, weeping piteously and heartbreakingly. _'I'm sorry'_ Draco cried, his voice raw and brittle, _'I'm sorry'_ –

"NO!" She screamed hysterically and forced Lucius Malfoy with all her willpower out of her mind.

Shaken at what had just happened, they both glared at each other appallingly, his hands still on her, hers clutching his collar, until suddenly, Lucius Malfoy's body started trembling violently. "No, NO!" he growled and let go of her, falling to his knees into the melting snow. What was happening with him?

"Stop it!" Hermione cried, pointing her wand at him.

"I can't!" he rasped.

Hermione drew her wand. "Finite Incantatem!" she yelled and red sparks hit the wizard but the power was too great a force; he started roaring in agony, his hands reaching out for her. Fiery light emanated from his body and snowflakes started to whirl around him.

"Silentio!" Hermione screamed, horrified by the dolorous wails of the wizard and grabbed his arm. "Protego!"

Instantly, the spell tried to push him away but she held on to him, hoping to suppress the raging magic within his body but it just made matters worse; Lucius Malfoy looked as if he was coming apart.

"Make it stop!" Hermione pleaded but it was lost on him. Suddenly, it dawned upon her that the use of magic fuelled the raging power in the wizard. His body was collecting and bundling energy, she noticed in sheer horror as she watched the light growing brighter and brighter, trying to find its way out of the wizard's body – no matter how.

Acting on pure instinct, Hermione gathered all her strength, took a big swing and slapped him vigorously across his face.

Once more she pointed her wand at him, her hand pulsing painfully, the absorption spell ready on her tongue, expecting the worst.

But slowly and steadily, the tension in the air subsided and the glow in him began to fade. Hermione stooped down, shook the poor figure and yelled "Malfoy! Lucius Malfoy!"

His eyes changed back to its natural colour but before she could help him up, the unmistakably loud cracking sound of people Apparating, pervaded the park.

"Cease instantly and lower your wands!" Aurors and Hit Wizards swarmed around, pointing their wands at Hermione and Lucius Malfoy who was still on his knees.

"By the law of New Amsterdam you're hereby being arrested for infringing the International Statute of Secrecy! I said LOWER YOUR WAND, WITCH! NOW!

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A/N II: I decided to name the Wizarding part of New York 'New Amsterdam'. Although the International Statute of Secrecy has been introduced after the invasion of the English in Dutch territory (about 30 years), I think the local Wizarding society gave a fig about Muggle quarrels and refused to call their new homeland New York and stuck to its original name. A wizard might have said: "I don't give a _kak_ about some English Muggle with a ridiculous crown on his head. Duke, they call him? _Serieus__?_ If I put a crown on my toad's head, will they bow too? _Opzouten__, __Dreuzel_! I'm a Dutch wizard and bow to no-one."


	6. Chapter 6: Destruct to Rebuild

**A/N: Vielen Dank LiterallyLiterary for Beta-reading! Thank you, dear readers, for your reviews; They're a great motivation! Harry Potter belongs to JKR.**

**Please, read &amp; review. Your reviews sustain me :-)**

ICOW = International Confederation of Wizards

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"The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself." – Sun Tzu

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**6 Destruct to Rebuild**

"Like I already said, it was an accident," Hermione said impatiently. "I merely tried to avoid a catastrophe. Besides, according to international law you aren't even allowed to detain or sentence me. I've got diplomatic immunity, given by the _ICOW_ and I'm a taskforce member –"

"– who infringed the law you ought to reinforce!" Hit Wizard Evert Provoorst cut her off sharply.

He shook his head disapprovingly and straightened his moustache. "We had to Obliviate four Muggles. _Four_, by Merlin's beard. My eleven-year-old daughter has pictures of you plastered all over her bedroom. What should I tell her now? Hm? That her idol was on the verge of blowing up a wandless wizard?"

The witch bit the inner side of her lips, nearly drawing blood. How she hated it if people pulled the hero-card. She did not choose to be a bloody poster-girl.

"Listen, Mister Provoorst," Hermione explained placatory, "I didn't mean to do any harm. Attempting to stop the seizure with protective spells seemed the most appropriate measure to take since Mister Malfoy _failed_ to disclose that a magic-ban spell had been casted on him. But _whoever_ was responsible for it, I find it hard to believe that our Minister would have allowed such crude measures to be applied on any convicts."

Evert Provoorst responded with a false laugh to show her exactly how he thought about that, and said curtly, "Lucius Malfoy claims you provoked him deliberately and invaded his mind. You know what this means according to US-Wizarding law? This is a serious offense."

_That backstabbing git! _Hermione thought angrily.

"Again," she said but failed to restrain the anger in her voice any longer, "I'm not a Legilimens. It was that curse which created a connection between us and forced me inside his mind. He invaded mine too. It wasn't my fault."

Provoorst waved dismissively. "Miss Granger, the fact is, you infringed the International Statute of Secrecy. You caused Mister Malfoy's seizure and nearly –"

"No!" Hermione's patience snapped. Angry tears were shooting up her eyes and she got louder as she continued in her most authoritative voice "How many times do I have to repeat myself that I didn't know and that it was an accident? I'm fed up with explaining myself over and over again. I insist on my diplomatic immunity. You have neither the right to detain nor interrogate me. Set me free at _once _if you don't want any problems with the ICOW!"

"You diplomats are all the same, aren't you?" Provoorst said, dangerously quiet, his voice carrying the sort of disdain she normally reserved for people like Umbridge. "You think you're better than the rest of us, don't you? Because of your privileges? But I'll tell you something. Your lot is nothing more but a bunch of corrupted officials, spitting on the laws we have sworn to reinforce day after day. While we are out on the streets, doing our damn best job to keep the Wizarding community safe, you detect and confiscate trinkets and trappings to protect _Muggles _instead your own kind, attend glamorous banquets and dine with Ministers, and rubbing shoulders with moneybags. I may not be able to sentence you but I can fine you, and I will. In fact, I'll fine you here and now with three thousand Guilders –"

"This is absolutely ridiculous!" Hermione screeched indignantly, her hands shaking from anger. "I don't have three thousand Guilders! I don't even have one thousand Galleons in my vault!"

He stood up and assessed her coolly. "I couldn't care less, Missy. Pay now or wait until the offices are open in Britain so I can inform your _boss_ about your infraction. I do believe that he wouldn't like to be left out on the fact that one of his precious subordinates almost blew up the wizard who helped your ministry to catch You-Know-Who's followers. It might cause quite a scandal, don't you think? And I assume that the ICOW doesn't like to see their reputation tainted by such an ugly affair. So, if you're not willing to pay the fine, I suggest you to start looking for another job. Good luck, Miss Granger."

"No! Wait…!" she pleaded hysterically, "This is illegal and unfair and totally out of proportion!"

But he already flounced out of the interrogation room. Five minutes later, Hermione was locked up with two passed out and snoring witches, one sodden with something that must have been her own vomit. It reeked of stale urine.

"Well done! How very fucking well done!" Hermione swore, kicked into a wall and bellowed.

After throwing her heels into a corner, she massaged her sore toes and tried to organise her reeling thoughts. She needed to get out of this cell, but how? Three thousand Guilders (which was equal to three thousand Galleons) was an amount her vaults never accommodated before, since she was investing most of her earnings into S.P.E.W and into her personal research project on meta-magic. It was absolutely ridiculous, and Provoorst made it clear enough that he inflicted such a high fine upon her just to take her down a peg or two.

"As if I'm misusing my diplomatic status!" she exclaimed enraged. People knew nothing about her line of work. The only banquets Hermione ever attended were the annual and mandatory Christmas banquets, and Kingsley was the only Minister she befriended and he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Rubbing shoulders with the rich? At the end of the day, the only things she rubbed were her temples to soothe the headache her spells caused.

Unable to pay the fine, the only option was to owl her boss, Perkins, but it would only make matters much worse. If Hermione were to face a hearing, the press would get wind of it and lead people into drawing false conclusions. Then, she would be forced to take on a dead-boring archive job, if not sacked immediately, thus depriving her of the only thing that allowed her to work without anyone breathing down her neck while pursuing her own research. But in the end, it did not matter whether she owled Perkins or not, of this Hermione was certain, because it would be very unlikely for the staff here to keep their mouths shut after collecting such a significant haul.

But what kept Lucius Malfoy from protesting in court against the magic-ban spell? Did Harry know about this? Did Draco know? Such an atrocity should not be kept a secret. It was a travesty against nature; a scandal! He could have died!

_Oh God! _Hermione covered her mouth in horror_. _

_What have I done?_

Sickness overcame her as the blunt truth finally sank in.

She nearly killed Lucius Malfoy.

Tears ran down her crimson face, hot from shame.

She nearly _killed_ Lucius Malfoy.

Provoorst was right; it was all her fault. This was not how a role model ought to behave. It was her selfishness, arrogance, and pride that led to this nightmare. She nearly killed Lucius Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy who helped the Ministry greatly in the hunt for Death Eaters, who was her friend's father, who asked her to keep him company on his _birthday_. And considering their past, he actually treated her like a human being throughout their entire stop-over. And how did Hermione behave? Like a self-righteous arse.

By Godric Gryffindor, she fucked up.

The door flew open with a loud bang, causing the distraught witch to start in surprise.

"Miss Granger! You're out of here!" a young, friendly-faced Hit Wizard announced.

"What?" she exclaimed, still in shock, while the other witches in the cell merely flinched in their comatose sleep.

"You are free to go."

"Oh, thank God!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved as she wiped her tears away.

With her shoes dangling from her fingers, Hermione followed the wizard through the hallways of the New Amsterdam Magical Law Enforcement Department. Apparently someone must have talked sense into Provoorst, she concluded hopefully, but only just before she was overcome with a gloomy presentiment. It could not be. Murphy's law was wrong.

"Why am I set free?" Hermione asked nevertheless.

The Hit Wizard gave her a warm smile before he responded. "Mister Malfoy paid your fine."

Her heart slipped into her boots. "No, no, no. Don't pull my leg," she said disbelievingly, on the brink of laughing and crying hysterically.

He gave her a flustered look. "I'm not. I'm telling you the truth, love. Just heard it from the boss himself."

Her mouth opened and closed several times, unable to utter a coherent response.

"Ah, come on!" The Hit Wizard nudged her forward. "He just paid three thousand bucks to get you out!"

_Which is exactly the problem!_ Hermione wanted to scream, a sob escaping her. Paying the fine in her stead was like rubbing salt into her wounds.

"How…dare…he…"

"Now, now. Don't cry. I know, that sort of kindness can sometimes be overwhelming," he said sympathetically.

She wanted to punch him.

Another five minutes later, Hermione's release form was practically tossed into her face by a sour looking secretary with magenta hair and heavily pierced ears, sitting behind the reception desk. But, tired and defeated from the events, Hermione kept her mouth shut.

A deep frown graced her forehead as she studied the paper. "This is wrong. Geneva isn't in Sweden, it's in Switzerland –" she gasped for breath and shouted "– and my occupation isn't being a _cold-hearted Greeffindork-Princess_! You even spelled it wrong! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Blatant hate flashed in the secretary's eyes and she hissed "What do I care? For all I know _you_ dumped Ron!"

Hermione's mouth fell open. "Excuse me, but what did you just say?" she asked incredulously, her voice shrill. This, after all, was not something she had been expecting.

"Don't worry about Amber!" the young Hit Wizard shouted from behind before he emerged. "She's bitching around because she's Ron Weasley's groupie. Just sign the paper. Here's your wand – ouch!"

Amber had started kicking him violently into his legs. "I'm not bitching around! It was her who broke poor Ron's heart. He told me so!" Amber retorted and snatched the paper from Hermione's grasp just as she barely finished her signature. The quill gave an unpleasant squeak and drew a long black line across the entire form.

But Hermione did not pay attention to those two bickering employees after she saw the next two men emerging from the same hallway she just came from.

"…will be pleased, Auror Gysbert," she heard Lucius Malfoy say with a smooth and friendly voice as the men shook hands. "Let me apologize once more for the commotion we caused."

"No offence taken, Lucius – and thanks," the Auror said with a smile on his lips and both patted each other's shoulders reassuringly, whispering something inaudible to one another.

The trembling in Hermione's body started before she even registered the shock.

How was it possible that he, the sentenced Dark wizard, walked free while she, a ministry official and ICOW taskforce member, was being interrogated, thrown into a cell, and fined? How was it possible that he looked as if his seizure never happened? And why did he shake hands with the Auror who just arrested them?

"De Forest! Wynkoop!" Auror Gysbert barked in a frosty and authoritative voice and the Hit Wizard and secretary winced audibly. "Stop pestering our British guest and show some manners! I want to see you both in my office. De Forest, now! Amber, in ten minutes! Do fetch Provoorst and his team before, will you? What are you waiting for, Aidan? Move your ass inside!"

The young Hit Wizard hurried into Auror Gysbert's office, not before inclining his head reverently towards the Dark wizard.

Their eyes met. Hermione's pulse echoed in her ears. Lucius Malfoy clenched his jaw.

And he strutted to her with the determination of a predator approaching its prey. Hermione took a step back. It painted an evil smirk on his face that did not quite reach his eyes.

_Bang!_

The witch jumped back as Amber stamped her release form with such force one could think she'd been mortally offended. "Take your wand and clear my counter, _domme slet__!_" the secretary snapped and to which the blond wizard's glare wandered to her. "Pardon, sir," Amber apologized fawningly and batted her eyelashes, completely missing out the seriousness of the situation.

"Hermione Granger…" Lucius Malfoy said quietly, turning her name into an accusation, a threat, and a claim altogether. He let his eyes flick over her release paper before he picked it up, deliberately slowly, and folded it, whereas the squealing sound of his nails scratching along the length of the paper made her skin crawl. Then, he let the paper disappear beneath his waistcoat.

He could as well just have stabbed her; it would have stung less.

Speechless and defeated, Hermione picked up her wand and fell onto the nearest bench, burying her face in her hands. A knot of raw guilt as big as her fist seemed to fester in her stomach and twisting her guts. This was the worst night she had in years, a disaster of epic proportion, utterly humiliating and degrading. She had been fined for inflicting the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy – the law she was appointed to protect. She had to endure nasty insults from one of Ron's plenty scores who just tried to flirt with Lord Voldemort's former right hand. And to crown it all, she was now indebted to the Dark wizard she almost killed in the attempt to save him.

Hot salty tears leaked through her fingers. Intruding one another's mind was worse than losing her virginity, and rifling through their memories pushed sexual intimacy down to the level of handshakes.

The bitter irony of it was that this mind-rape revealed that her facile image of the Dark wizard was absolute bollocks. In the end, and if everything else was stripped off of him, Lucius Malfoy was nothing more than a husband and father who tried to protect his family, and a son who tried to live up to his father's expectations.

Someone covered her shoulders with a soothingly warm jacket, its distinct aroma revealing exactly that wizard as its owner. It drugged her, reminding her of the overwhelming feeling of his body on hers while they had danced, passionately angry and fervently sinful, how his blazing touch felt on her skin – It was too much.

And for the first time in Hermione's life, she felt absolutely and utterly ashamed of herself.

She wept more.

"Na, na, na, Miss Granger, pull yourself together. Humiliation isn't lethal," she heard Lucius Malfoy saying patronisingly. "The next shift is imminent and I won't have you causing any further embarrassment. Up, up! The fireplaces are at the far end of the hall."

"No," she managed to say between her sobs. "It's too late anyway…"

Lucius Malfoy sighed and pulled her up.

"No it isn't, so stop sulking like a stubborn child!" he scolded her as she tried to shake him off. "If you want to deliver yourself from this predicament, you ought to come with me. Now."

Hermione sniffed, wiping the salty streaks from her face. But she held her head high, her lips drawn to a stern line, holding back the sobs stuck in her throat.

At least she had slapped him.

"That's much better," the wizard said, oblivious to her last thought and continued in a business-like voice "Now, when we arrive at our hotel, you have exactly fifteen minutes to take a shower, dress in something more comfortable, and take a calming draught before you and I are going to have a little chat. I expect to find you in my suite _not_ a minute later if you don't want to risk your job and reputation. If you try to contact _anyone_ in the meantime, I shall know and you will come to regret it – that much I can promise you. And don't even think about Obliviating me – the curse won't allow it. Do you understand?"

The nod was barely noticeable.

"Say it," he demanded.

"I…I understand." More than she wanted to.

"Good."

Barefooted and crestfallen, Hermione moved along the empty hallway while Lucius Malfoy strutted beside her, resting his hand on her back possessively. She felt like a hunting trophy being paraded through a sea of spectators, which in reality only consisted of her wounded pride and guilty conscience.

At least he spared her the applause.

* * *

Domme slet = Stupid slut (ned.)


	7. Chapter 7: The Sorcerer's Apprentice

**A/N: Vielen Dank LiterallyLiterary for Beta-reading and thank you all for your reviews; You're great! HP belongs to JKR.**

**Here's the music for this chapter (all by Antonio Vivaldi). It's absolutely divine, so check my profile for the playlist link:**

**Laudate pueri Psalm 112 RV 601 (Magda Kalmar) II. Sit nomen**

**Choral Works (Budapest Madrigal Choir, Liszt Ferenc Chamber Orchestra/Ferenc Szakeres; Soloists) Gloria RV 589: II. Et in terra pax**

**Laudate pueri Psalm 112 RV 601 (Magda Kalmar) IV. Excelsus**

**Laudate pueri Motet RV 626 (Magda Kalmar) III. Aria**

**This chapter was a tough one to write (content-wise but also emotionally****) but I hope you like it. **

**Please read &amp; review.**

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"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts." – Winston Churchill

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**7 The Sorcerers' Apprentice**

Hermione and Lucius Malfoy were sitting opposite of each other; she in the chaise lounge, he in the armchair, scrutinizing her like a wolf that could not yet decide on how to devour its prey. It was still dark outside and the only source of light came from the candles, which dipped the suite in an eerie glow, casting large wavering shadows on walls and floor.

The grace period of a quarter of an hour gave Hermione enough time to regain her composure and analyse the situation for what it was: a negotiation. What Lucius Malfoy said back in the Magical Law Enforcement Department was enough for her to understand that he had an agenda – otherwise he would not have paid her fine. Also, she had a very clear notion about the consequences should she not comply, which most certainly consisted of an utter and thorough destruction of her professional career and respectable reputation. Therefore, the best she could do was to exercise in damage control.

Mildly astonished, she noticed that the Dark wizard wore a dark woollen jumper instead of his usual high-collared shirts, thereby exposing the inked runes on his neck. He must have received them from his attempt to steal Harry's prophecy because they showed the Wizarding community for what crime he had been sentenced. It was a pity that only few people were able to read them these days, Hermione thought. But Futhark runes could not be read as a phonetic alphabet; they were determinatives representing various meanings and concepts, which only made sense in context of each other. Correctly read, _Eihwaz, Algiz, Naudhiz, _and_ Wunjo_ revealed that Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced for being an important member of a malign secret society; who almost achieved to purloin something of great power; under great risk, but also great constraint, in order to maintain his powerful position in that society. And Hermione was certain that if she had stripped the Dark wizard of his clothes, she would have found more runes beneath, providing a much more detailed depiction of his criminal record.

But this was neither the time nor the place to ponder about how Lucius Malfoy might look like bare-chested – or why she even thought about it.

_Focus_, she scolded herself silently.

Fact one: Hermione had to admit that Hit Wizard Provoorst was right in the assumption that someone casted a magic-ban curse on Lucius Malfoy, thus clearly overstepping the boundaries of British Magical Law. And if it indeed was an inside job, it implicated that some bigwig within the ministry was rather disappointed to see the former Lieutenant of Voldemort walking out of court as a free man, despite his seven-year wand-ban. Thus, fact two: someone wanted him dead. That would also explain why he kept the incident to himself; after all, to whom could he turn that was capable _and_ willing to help the ultimate persona non grata in this matter?

Fact three: considering that all-to-friendly handshake with Auror Gysbert, Hermione was profoundly convinced that money changed its owner. For what purpose she did not know but probably to affirm discretion. Fact four: the Dark wizard paid her fine instead of letting her rot in the cell, which was, in her opinion, very suspicious. But after careful consideration of those aforementioned facts, his reasons for bailing her out were hidden in plain sight: Lucius Malfoy was an infamous, sentenced, and wandless wizard in danger of being killed, and who suffered from an illegal magic-ban curse. So, why not seize the opportunity and demand reparation and help from the witch who nearly got him killed? If this was his plan indefinitely, it revealed what a dangerous quick-thinker he was by recognizing the opportunity that lay in the worst of situations, coming up with a plan, and acting upon them.

However, the witch had leverage against the Dark wizard. Specifically, a name: Marius Malfoy. It was beyond doubt that _this_ Malfoy was not in any way magical. Although she did not know how the lawyer was related to the patriarch, the circumstance that he was related sufficed to put him under pressure. Furthermore, after what she had seen in his mind, Lucius Malfoy was, underneath his expensive clothes, deflating demeanour, and icy stares, a breathing human being, perfectly capable of emotional depth – perhaps even empathy.

But no matter how she looked at it, the plain truth was that Hermione was at his mercy; he'd paid her fine and it was well within his power to slip the incident to the public or not. And by the looks of him, he revelled it. That sly fox knew she felt guilty for the incident and Hermione could almost hear the wheels of his mind grinding and ticking, working out scenarios, assessing them, making momentous decisions. And by the calculating looks he gave her, the Dark wizard intimated that he knew she did the same with him.

Lucius Malfoy tilted his head and scratched his Adam's apple lazily. "So, you and Draco…" he said in a voice sounding as pleasant as fingernails scraping a blackboard.

"…reconciled," the witch answered dismissively and flashed him a nervous look, to which the blond crossed his legs and remained silent. She knew why; they both recalled the painful and humiliating experience of the violent intrusion into their minds, the most intimate and vulnerable part of their being.

As far as Hermione was concerned, she would have locked away that whole incident into the deepest corner of her mind, leaving it there until the end of times. Oddly enough, the blond seemed to come to the same conclusion, dropped the subject, and came straight to business.

"Miss Granger, how much is your freedom and career worth?"

Hermione's knuckles went white from clenching her hands into fists. Knowing that she was being blackmailed did not mean that it made the experience less dreadful.

"I'm willing to make amends," she answered stiffly.

"You may continue," he voiced coolly and made a rolling gesture with his hand.

"I'll pay you every Knut back and won't disclose anything about what happened."

Lucius Malfoy flared his nostrils in displease. "Don't tell me you didn't understand the magnitude of my intervention."

Aggrieved, she answered pointedly "I made my assumptions," and rendered her conjectures during which he curved his lips into a dark, affirmative smirk, not quite showing his teeth.

"You missed a crucial point," Lucius Malfoy said, "The fine I paid in your stead wasn't a fine in the traditional sense. It was rather an…investment I've made."

"Investment? Since when are bribes dubbed 'investments'?" Hermione asked sardonically.

"That's an inaccurate and utterly inappropriate term to describe what I have done for you," the wizard said patronizingly. "I cleared up a misunderstanding and guaranteed a discrete handling – on your behalf. You should count yourself lucky that the original files are now in my possession; somewhere save and out of reach."

Hermione went pale as death.

"Y–You d-didn't…" she stammered, enraged as the missing pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. Her fingers began to twitch, demanding to be wrapped around the wizard's neck to strangle that smug expression off his face.

Instead, she dug her nails into the upholstery and screeched, "You convinced the Auror it was my sole fault in order to keep your own slate clean! You coaxed the Auror to fine me with an astronomic sum you knew I was never able to pay so _you_ could pay in my stead to seal the deal and have me indebted to you!"

On the verge of losing countenance, Hermione drew her wand and bawled lividly, "_Accio_ Hermione Granger's files!"

Nothing happened.

"Tut-tut, Miss Granger." Lucius Malfoy rested his chin in his hand, his fingers tipping lazily at his temple, "Don't insult my intelligence."

"How dare you," she spat, inflamed with rage, pointing the wand at him as he merely stared at her with an impenetrable expression, not giving away the slightest emotion.

Her bottom lip quivered from the struggle of keeping her composure. All she needed to do was form a focused command in her mind in order to hex his balls off…Merlin knew how much she wanted to make a lasting statement!

But after an agonizing moment during which prudence won over rage, Hermione finally lowered her arm.

"How did you manage to…_convince_ the Auror?" she asked with suppressed temper.

"I rather regard it as an exchange of favours between Gysbert van den Bergh and me," the Dark wizard answered coolly and unfazed by her outburst. "Did you know that Auror Gysbert is a proud father of three beautiful, ambitious daughters? One of them recently got engaged with an offspring of a well established and very respectable family – quite a good match for that little parvenu I daresay. And since his family's reputation is at stake, Gysbert wants to do everything within his power to avoid his daughter's wedding being associated with compromising terms like 'commonness' or 'inferiority'. Unfortunately, the local government is not known to be a generous employer, which poses quite an obstacle. But Daddy would do his utmost to please his little Darling Princess, wouldn't he?"

Hermione snorted in disbelief. "So, you're telling me the Auror wanted money for the wedding? Seriously?" she asked incredulously, forgetting for an instant that her professional standing was at stake.

Lucius Malfoy flashed a colluding look at her. It was sickening.

"But still, there are enough witnesses who knew what happened," Hermione said briskly, "The Hit Wizards, the secretary – Gysbert could not have possibly _obliviated_…"

She paused, irritated, and could not help but groan aloud as she remembered how Gysbert shouted at the employees to come to his office.

At least no one could say that Lucius Malfoy was not thorough.

"A Knut for your thoughts?" the blond asked, bemused with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Only if it reduces my debt," she retorted audaciously.

He chuckled. "Freedom is invaluable, Miss Granger, invaluable. But people tend to put a price on it without realising that every number they set is below its worth."

Well, she quite agreed with him.

"So, what is…_priceless_ to you?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"Oh, you're progressing," he drawled satisfied. "What do you think is invaluable to a wizard like me but not in possession of it?"

The witch sucked her teeth. "Exerting magic?"

Lucius Malfoy repeated the rolling gesture.

"A wand?"

"Go on," he insisted.

Hermione hesitated before she pressed out with violent effort, "Restored reputation? Influence?"

The wizard inclined his head approvingly.

"Alright, Mister Malfoy, I'll help you finding out who did this to you and how to break the curse, and help you on reversing your magic and wand-ban. I'll get you a wandmaker who's willing to make you one. But how can I possibly aid you in restoring your influence and reputation?"

"Miss Granger, don't you see the opportunity that lies in there?" he drawled.

"What opportunity?"

"To achieve your political aims."

"How?"

"Through me."

"Through you?" She let out a false laugh and was not sure why she even deigned to respond. "This is absolutely ludicrous. Our attitudes oppose! I'm fighting _for_ equality, _for_ Muggle-borns and half-bloods, _for_ magical creatures and _against_ corruption –"

"– And in order to do so, you need votes, allies, influence, money – in short, power," Lucius Malfoy enunciated every word and stood up, closing the distance between them. He reached under her chin, pulling up her gaze to meet his. Warning bells were ringing in Hermione's head. She _should_ have pushed him off –

"Did you never wonder why you achieved so very little despite your reputation, your role as a war-heroine?" he asked, penetrating her with his adamant grey eyes. "It isn't your heritage or your blood-status that hinders you, it's the lack of understanding of our world that comes with it. As you might have noticed already, politics in the Wizarding world doesn't work like a democracy or any sort of degenerate Muggle-state form. It's a_ Bastard Feudalism _in which anyone could become a lord, where services are made in return for money and influence. But to become a truly influential member of our society in order to push through reforms, one has to seek patronage and provide it, form allegiances and alliances to secure the backing of the opinion leaders and decision makers."

Lucius Malfoy's thumb traced gently along her jawline, educing highly embarrassing sensations and conflicting feelings from the young witch.

"Miss Granger, what you need is thorough guidance in statesmanship. What you need is a proper mentor who helps you…thrive."

Hermione caught her breath. Despite the undeniable truth of his words, she started to seriously doubt his sanity.

"You really think I'm interested in becoming the devil's apprentice? You're delusional," she said brusquely and pushed his hand from her face.

But the Dark wizard was not that easy to shake off and moved cautiously behind the chaise longue. She could feel him leaning in to her ear, inhaling deeply, humming lightly in the attempt.

_Oh God! _Hermione thought desperately as she felt her nipples stiffen, and bit the inner side of her lips. _This is so wrong!_

"There's so much potential in you," he said, his voice reduced to a mere whisper, dripping like honey into her ear. "You're highly intelligent, a powerful and exceptionally skilled witch despite your youth. You already formed an allegiance with Dumbledore's Army but you're still _raw_ and imperfect, a diamond that needs to be cut and polished. You don't know how to use the means within your reach to achieve your goals. Instead you let yourself be used by the Ministry as a pawn. But I can guide you from the chessboard, help you in leaving behind the life of a pawn and groom you in becoming a player."

He was so near now that her skin started to tingle where his lips almost touched her ear, making her shudder in a very inappropriate manner.

"Regard this proposition as an opportunity to finally succeed where you couldn't, to enfold your true potential those dunderheads in the ministry failed to recognize. You would be able to turn our world into a place of equality, a place you could call _home_."

A stretching silence pervaded the room as the implications of his offer sank in. Hermione mulled over Lucius Malfoy's words. _He's good_, she had to admit reluctantly. He hit the mark with the precise accuracy of a seasoned hunter, intriguing her –

Shocked as she had realised how well indeed he managed to intrigue her, she recoiled hastily from his proximity. "And what would you possibly gain from this?" she croaked, her voice sounding strangely foreign.

"As I said, in return you'll help me to restore my family's former influence and reputation." The expression on the wizard's face was deathly serious.

"Why should I want that?"

"Believe me, I make a much better ally than enemy," he answered with unaltered confidence.

"I wouldn't say so," Hermione retorted.

Narrowing his maliciously, Lucius Malfoy did not need to voice a threat to issue one.

Reminding herself of her precious research and decent life, abroad, in blissful peace, Hermione asked nervously, "But aren't you against everything I stand for?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is that you have the possibility to reform politics to your liking and I will be there to help you achieving your goals – whatever they are. If you bend, I'm willing to bend with you. If you turn, I'm willing to turn with you. This is my offer in exchange for my family's well being, for Draco's well being and every future descendant's of mine."

Hermione gave him an appraising look. "You of all people are willing to give up your treasured beliefs just to restore your reputation? Aren't you rich enough to just give a fig about it? Can't money buy you influence?" she asked provocatively.

"Do you think it's that easy?" Lucius Malfoy sneered. "Well, let me tell you, it isn't. Money can't buy you everything. It cannot protect my descendants from the humiliation of carrying a disrespectable name."

The Dark wizard went to the window and stared out, his hands folded behind his back. "None of my future grandchildren shall be ashamed for being a Malfoy…nor should my son. When I had joined the Dark Lord as a young wizard, I believed that the agenda he pursued would serve my goals, my family. It was a foolish notion, nurtured by the arrogance and impatience of youth. By the time I had realised the error of choosing to champion the Dark Lord, it was too late to back down. When the Dark Lord called, you had to obey or you died along with everything you kept dear."

His gaze shifted back to her and he continued with settled conviction, "Ideologies are made to serve men, not the other way round – not in my case…never again. But to clarify my position; I still believe in the superiority of wizards and witches over Muggles. However, I had to accept the plain truth that the era of pure-blood supremacy is over. Moreover, the zeitgeist of our world requires a new approach on handling things if we want the Wizarding world to survive and prosper, and I strongly believe you came to the same conclusion."

"Yes," Hermione said astonished and shifted uncomfortably, abashed and unsure what to make of his surprisingly honest sounding concession. Diving into the world of Muggles must have been quite a trip if it resulted in such a profound change of attitude. But she could not trust him. He was probably only saying those things to win sympathy-points and lure her into his trap.

"Miss Granger," Lucius said with patient determination, "Our world needs reforms and I want the Malfoys to be part of this new world. But we both know that no profound changes can be introduced as long the seats in the Wizengamot are occupied by wizards and witches who can't even spell the words 'nuclear bombs' – let alone know what they are, that they had been used, and in possession of mad Muggles who are just waiting for an excuse to drop them on their enemies. You do realise that?"

"I do," she said quietly, staring at him as if he were a stranger.

Hermione was checkmated. He played well. Lucius Malfoy pointed out all the problems and opportunities, the implication of his offer, choosing the right arguments to emphasise the ingenuity of the suggestion and its compatibility with her attitude. She was thorn between being angry and impressed by the convincing but manipulative nature of his reasoning, and his openly admitted caring for his son. Hermione desperately wanted to believe him wrong, knowing that he was right, already making her believe it to be stupid if turning him down, that whole kettle of experience and expertise that could be at her disposal. Refusing was losing and wrong, accepting was winning and right. It was simple as that. There was no point in denying it.

Of course, she could refuse him, but what would she gain by that? Nothing but more trouble. However, by accepting, Hermione would be able to maintain what was important to her and win what yet had to be won without betraying her beliefs.

And Lucius Malfoy wanted help. As sad as it was, people like him never learned how to simply ask for it. Their pride did not allow admitting that they suffered from injustice. But he was very well aware of Hermione's commitment to fight injustice. And by suggesting such a mutually beneficial agreement, both would be able to keep their face.

_Damn him!_ She thought, exasperated. But she had made up her mind.

"Mister Malfoy," Hermione said calmly, "what assurance can you give me that you'll not precipitously turn against me someday? That you'll make other alliances to cross me?"

"None," he voiced smoothly, absentmindedly drawing something into the fogged-up window with his finger. "But why should I cross my _protégée_? If you don't give me a reason, you'll have nothing to fear."

"Protégée…" the witch murmured, letting the word roll over her tongue to test how it sounded, recalling the exact meaning of it. "So, you want to take me under your wing? You, the once so fervent follower and lieutenant of Lord Voldemort, offer me, a Muggle-born, a _Mudblood_, your patronage?"

"Yes, I do."

"But how am I sure you won't slip any information about this incident to the public one day?"

"It will be at my sole discretion," the wizard answered, "But there's nothing to gain if I would harm my own protégée. Therefore, I'm willing to hand you over the original files, if you manage to fulfil the first part of our agreement."

She could live with that. "And this…arrangement will be treated with the same discretion?"

"Naturally, but I wouldn't like to keep it a secret from my son," Lucius Malfoy said, to which she nodded slowly.

"But if you want me to believe that you're serious about this whole thing," Hermione said carefully, "I need more proof, more _assurance_."

Breathless silence dominated the air between the two. He knew exactly what she meant. And he did not approve.

"You are in no position to negotiate, Miss Granger," he said frostily.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Hermione whispered, said _the_ name, and hit her mark.

Slowly, the wizard moved away from the window, resumed his seat, and studied her intently. Vigilant observers would have noted a slight unevenness in his breathing, an uncanny glistening in his eyes but to her surprise, he neither displayed hostility nor fear. No, Lucius Malfoy stared at her rather curiously, as if he had seen her for the very first time, and after for what seemed like an eternity, he finally inclined his head lightly.

Waves of adrenaline coursed through Hermione's veins. Slowly, as if approaching a dangerous animal, she drew closer to him, holding his gaze, took out her wand and drew a cut into her palm until the first drops of blood seeped out. There was a sharp intake of air. It did not come from her.

"My blood and yours," Hermione said expectantly and knelt before him, his wide-open eyes following her intently. "Your hand, if your really mean everything you just said."

The Dark wizard was breathing heavily but he did not wince as she cut him; he just stared at the blood gleaming in the same shade as hers.

Without further warning, Hermione pressed their palms together, mingling their blood.

"I hereby accept Lucius Malfoy's patronage and recognize you as my patron," she said with a quivering voice, capturing his gaze.

"I hereby take you, Hermione Granger, under my patronage and recognize you as my protégée," Lucius Malfoy added in the same manner.

Billows of magical energy jolted through their hands. Their blood pact was sealed.

Hermione really did it. She coaxed Lucius Malfoy to make a magical blood pact with her, a Mudblood, who was now literally under his protection.

A smile played her lips and to her surprise and utter displease, the Dark wizard returned her smile in the same manner.

How dare he to act so bloody smug!

"Mister Malfoy, don't offend me by thinking I'm oblivious to the fact that I'm just part of a bigger plot," she growled, "I might not yet know its content but I do know that it exists and I will find out sooner or later. And just so you know; I won't dance after your pipe like some stooge."

His smile turned into a smirk. "I know. I would have never taken you on if I found you dull."

She was not exactly sure if she should read it as a challenge or a compliment – probably both.

"You may now heal it – carefully," the wizard drawled and tightened his grip on her hand.

"Of course," she murmured slightly embarrassed and cleared her throat. "Just give me a moment."

The witch closed her eyes briefly to gather her concentration, laid her other hand on his, and breathed "_Sanemur."_

Lucius Malfoy's expression turned into astonishment as their wounds closed, his steely grey eyes glowing for a fraction of a second.

"Interesting spell…Durmstrang, I assume?" he said genuinely impressed and pulled her up.

Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath. "Yes" she admitted and averted her eyes, earning her a quiet chuckle and a gentle kiss on her hand.

"Pacts create undeniable intimacy. I think it appropriate to address each other by our given names from now on."

Hermione reddened and withdrew her hand, which still tingled where his lips had touched. "You should be careful not to spoil the meat of your prey with too many bullets…Lucius," she warned him.

"Hm…Trust me, Hermione, I know _exactly_ how many bullets a lioness can bear."

"How do _you_ possibly know how to use a firearm?"

"I am a man of many talents."

"Is that so? Well, then don't forget that it's the lioness which hunts the prey for its pride."

He arched an eyebrow. "How could I? I'm the one you hunt for now."

* * *

Half a bottle of Firewhisky later, Hermione was back in her room, leaning against the bathroom door, trembling, trying to cope with the anger simmering in her.

Lucius provided the ministry with the best intelligence on Lord Voldemort and his followers in exchange for his and Draco's freedom. But the ink on his release papers was not yet dry when the Ministry already broke their bargain by failing to protect him. He had been attacked right after the passing of judgement when he was collecting his scarce possessions in his cell. Hit Wizards had found him passed out on the floor with deep cuts on his back and without any recollection of what had happened, the guards stunned and _obliviated_ in the same manner. As Lucius suffered from his first magical seizure, he chiefly assumed it was the result of some sort of stress disorder. Only after Narcissa had tried out some simple spells on him, did they realise he had been cursed. Unable to identify the exact spell, let alone break it, Lucius had no choice but to move out from his ancestral seat; it became too dangerous with all the magic it held. But the ministry denied his application to set up proper wards on the new house to keep him safe from Death Eaters on the run. Lucius was their bloody asset and they did not give a shit! Worse, certain members of the Wizengamot tried to overrule court sentences and sabotage investigations whenever the Auror Office pushed charges against ministry officials or their relatives Lucius named as Voldemort's followers. There were ongoing investigations against half of the members of the Wizengamot. Half! After six years, the ministry was still infested with that craven and opportunistic scum who had done Voldemort's bidding. It was a fucking travesty.

Hermione stared at the freshly healed cut on her palm. She was done with licking her wounds. It was time to lure the rats out of their holes.

* * *

Sanemur = We will be healed (lat.)

A/N II: I don't know how you feel like after reading this chapter but I got goosebumps from the _tension_ between those two.


	8. Chapter 8: Meeting Expectations

**A/N: Thanks goes to LiterallyLiterary for Beta-reading! HP = JKR**

**I was so touched by your reviews and happy that you loved the last chapter as much as I did. I respond to every review but sadly I can only do so if you're registered. Thus, special thanks to the guest-reviewers! Keeps me going.**

**Here's the music for this chapter (check my profile for the playlist):**

**Father and son smoking after dinner: Frank Sinatra – It was a very good year**

**Lucius reciting from Faust: Johann Sebastian Bach – Harpsichord Concerto No.1 in D Minor BWV 1052 - 2_3 (Complete Harpsichord Concertos), Trevor Pinnock English Concert**

* * *

"A father is a man who expects his son to be as good a man as he meant to be." – Frank A. Clark

* * *

**8 Meeting Expectations**

Lucius watched how Hermione steered nimbly around trolleys and bustling Muggles, before finally disappearing into the crowd, jetting off to her client. The patriarch leaned back in the car seat and signalled the chauffeur to drive on. It was time to make a long overdue phone call.

Three rings later, a smooth and silky but slightly slurring voice answered, "Good Lord, Lucius! Glad to hear from you. I tried to call you at least a dozen times. Everything alright?"

"Of course it is," Lucius replied curtly. On the other end of the line, he could make out exotic folklore music blatantly playing from cheap loudspeakers. "How's the merchandise?"

"Oh, the goblins will be pissing rainbows at the sight of those Burmese rubies. Some of them are as big as quail eggs. And the colour," the man raved passionately, "vivid, red sparkling, transparent _pigeon's blood_ with minimal inclusions. I bought as much as I could with the budget. That's why I was trying to reach you. Look, Madame Tha made an offer I couldn't possibly refuse..."

"You don't say."

The blond probed into the details of the offer, phone clamped between shoulder and cheek, while scribbling figures into his notebook. Satisfied with the estimated profit margin, he gave his consent to the deal. Rubies of such high quality were so high in demand that Lucius played the rivalling Wizarding banks ruthlessly off against one another to achieve higher prices. It was a dangerous game he played with the goblins, whose greed was a well-known trait, but they were so easily governed through that aforementioned vice that Lucius' price demands became a mere side issue, the negotiations an inconvenient necessity.

"Marius, there is a slight change of plans," Lucius interrupted the flood of words coming from his lawyer.

"Yes, sir," the he said, "I'm all ears."

"As soon you're out of Mogok I would like you to arrange with Frederick to have all assets in Guernsey removed and transferred onto the special offshore accounts we talked about."

Marius cackled. "Golly, that's pleasant news," he said and continued in a low voice, sounding conspiratorial, "Look, I ran into a _friend_ in Bangkok who's a _friend_ of the Deputy Chief of Staff of –" The lawyer made a short discourse about Muggle politics and the forthcoming war, elaborated on its impact on Muggle economics, ultimately pointing out that it was wiser to trade _all_ Muggle currency assets Lucius had into Swiss Francs to avoid suffering from heavy fluctuations. 'Damage control' Marius called it and rattled off dozens of arguments, which in return were challenged by Lucius until he accepted his advice, also agreeing to the suggestion of discarding those company shares they estimated to skid down in value as soon war was going to be announced officially.

"About Frederick…I'm not so sure if…" the lawyer hesitated, struggling for words, "He started gambling with the assets by investing in some dodgy structured products from ML who promise a twenty percent return on investment. Admittedly, they will be reaching break-even point and he got quite a good put-option for it but I know those sharks at ML well enough to know that nothing good can come of it."

"Do go on," Lucius said encouragingly as he noticed the lawyer's inner struggle whether to share his thoughts on Frederick with his boss or not.

"I'm not _the_ expert but trading with unsecured debts from ML? Any sober person can smell a bubble from fifty miles against the wind. I know, up until now Frederick did a good job as Financial Consultant but I'm afraid he's losing his touch and steers right into the middle of a massive cock up. Did you know that he had his nasal septum fixed last month? He tries to smother it up but everyone knows that he's snorting his interests up his nose. Last week, he couldn't even sit through a normal meeting without it. That man is wasted."

Thoughtfully, Lucius swept his fingers over his chin. He was no stranger to the drug Marius referred to; he had tried it once, too, 1972, when he was eighteen, in a moment of foolish adolescent truculence, and resulted in fourteen Obliviated Muggles (of which six of them had to be hospitalized), a demolished nightclub, three abducted albino peacocks, and the fathering of Crabbe's Squib bastard. His Muggle-search warrant for 'a six foot and two inches tall man, between seventeen to twenty-one years, with distinct shoulder-length ash-blond hair, and grey eyes' was stowed away somewhere in the attic of his ancestral seat, along with other artefacts of his phase of post-pubertal insubordination.

"I have no use for people who cannot control their habits. Discharge him," Lucius instructed without batting an eye. "And find me someone more apt to handle the transition of the assets."

"Sam," Marius said, reserved. "But what shall we do about Frederick? He knows too much."

"Let her handle him too."

"Well, I would be terribly glad if you could meet Sam. I rather don't like to be within arm's length of that nymphomaniac." Marius gave a little cough. "Last time she nearly chewed my willy off."

"You never complained about that before," the wizard commented cynically.

Marius huffed and said, "My parents raised me too well to elaborate and I like my job too much to retort."

"Good for you, Son," Lucius drawled amusedly, "I'm going to be in Geneva next Friday; therefore, I suggest we meet there for the merchandise. And since you're too afraid of our darling head-hunter, I shall meet with her. It obviously needs more of a man than you to handle Sam," he added mockingly, coaxing a derisive snort from his lawyer.

* * *

Lucius studied his son while they were having dinner at a quiet French cuisine restaurant. Draco filled out his clothes quite handsomely nowadays, he noticed approvingly, and found himself facing a spitting image of his younger self with shorter, unkempt hair and a weary expression, creating a state of suave imperfection.

_Is it not exactly this combination of languid elegance and carefully dosed neglect of appearance, modern women found irresistible?_ Lucius thought suspiciously, knowing that his boy was in his best years, far away from prying eyes, surrounded by dissolute Muggle-women, and exposed to the temptations modern Gomorrah had to offer. Admittedly, he was ridiculously paranoid in every matter that concerned his son, and if he were honest, he knew that his boy would never engage in immoral acts with Muggles. No, Draco was not capable of committing such downright perversions.

They were in the middle of discussing Draco's studies, when Lucius noticed that something was bothering his heir but it was not until the waiters served the next course, that Draco finally let the Kneazle out of the bag. "The curriculum requires an internship and I'm considering coming back home," he said cautiously.

That was interesting; his son wanted to come back home. Satisfied with this unexpected turn of events, the older Malfoy leaned back and extended his arm on the backrest of the chair next to him, watching Draco eating his sautéed _foie gras de canard._

"What do you think?" Draco asked while their appointed waiter replenished their glasses.

"I think you should." Lucius had to be very careful how he expressed his next words if he wanted his son back without sounding desperate, and settled for a placid and just mildly intrigued voice. "In fact, is there no way you can finish your studies in England if you have to insist on it?"

The young blond stared at him as if he had grown a pair of horns on his head.

"Hold your Hippogryffs, Son. My view on that matter did not change. However, I don't want to give Narcissa the satisfaction of accusing me of being a short-tempered, narrow-minded father who keeps his offspring on a short leash." Of course his view changed, as it fitted perfectly into his newest designs, and Narcissa's opinion was about as relevant as a toppled sack of dragon dung in china.

But it worked and Draco cleared his throat. "Well, actually. I could do an exchange semester," he suggested.

"Well, then come back – it's time. You already call a term 'a semester' and wear your hair like a Muggle. One year more and you'd be wearing tracksuit bottoms, use ghastly neologisms like 'sweater' and 'sneakers', referring to 'vests' instead of 'waistcoats' that you'll wear under your made-to-measure business suit jacket with plastic buttons, instead of a bespoke wizard robe made of proper genuine materials."

"In the name of Brutus Malfoy, that would be scandalous," Draco drawled sarcastically.

"It already is," Lucius insisted. "It already is."

Draco's mouth bowed to a nearly non-existent smile. Well remembered were Brutus Malfoy's endless rants about the family's current state of affairs whenever they passed the portrait of the editor of the seventeenth century anti-Muggle periodical _Warlock at War._

"If you'd turn up dressed like a Muggle you might bring his portrait about to finally snuff it," Lucius suggested smugly, half in earnest, half in jest.

"We should try it out one day," Draco drawled.

"Definitely."

Father and son were smoking in the lounge of the fraternity house the latter was member of, enjoying the comfort of one another's presence. Lucius kept the beautiful hardcopy of Goethe's _Faust I_ in his lap, his fingertips running tenderly along the golden embellishments, enjoying the feeling of the relief underneath, while Draco was engrossed in the Colbert-book, reading into it with the eager eyes of a scholar. Lucius' gaze drifted over to the framed photographs of former members hanging on the panelled walls. Among them he recognised a Muggle US-president who had been murdered during his presidential term, and vaguely remembered that it must have happened around the time his own father planned the demise of the then Minister of Magic, Nobby Leach. That poor Muggle-born warlock had to resign from office due to a mysterious illness he had caught during that nasty Squib-rights affair.

With the lips curved into a discreet, sinister smirk, Lucius gaze drifted back to his son's gift. It was a masterly bound piece of the German Bauhaus-artist Otto Dorfner who was famous for his unique geometrical style, using gothic and crystalline architectural elements and expressionistic fonts.

"Only few works survived the Second Muggle World War and were preserved in an adequate manner," Lucius broke the silence. "You exhibited great taste in this choice of gift although you so vehemently deny your interest in book collecting as you do in oenology."

Curiously, he looked asquint at his son, determined to find out if Narcissa had a hand in it.

Draco pursed his lips, swivelling his feet lightly.

_Of course she had._

"Did you know that German is considered as _the_ language of poetry, Son?" Lucius continued, allowing unfolding his train of thoughts to unravel the underlying message Narcissa wanted to convey with her meddling. "It's a fusional language with a very precise vocabulary but a crushing complex grammar. However, it allows writers to let their thoughts blossom most vividly in the brightest of colours, achieving all the nuances of the spectrum to convey the subtleties of life. It was my tutor, _Fräulein _Lombach, who taught me how to appreciate the beauty of that rough-sounding language."

_Ah, Eva,_ Lucius thought and raised his eyebrows in silent appreciation, remembering her long, raven-black hair, the luscious curves of her buttocks, and her full, rose-coloured lips as it were yesterday. She was the main protagonist of his earliest indecent dreams, the drug he later had consumed with reckless abandon, greedy for her odour, her cunt, her essence - and it dawned upon him that it were exactly those memories Narcissa wanted to evoke with this book.

Lucius uttered an angry snort. How dare she to remind him of that pre-martial affair! He was in no need of female companionship; he did perfectly fine without. Or did she intend to tell him in that wicked way of hers that she took on a paramour and that he should move on as well?

"If your mother has something to tell me, she could as well deign to write me a letter instead, or did she forget how to use a quill?" Lucius remarked acerbically, annoyed that this mere thought of her in the arms of another man aggrieved him so much. For Merlin's sake, she used to be his wife for twenty years.

Draco grunted and shrugged in a capitulating manner, clearly exhausted and fed up with the role of playing the peace envoy for his divorced parents.

"Women and their sentiments…" Lucius murmured, refusing to let his mood darken by Narcissa who defrauded him of the loyalty she had pledged with their wedding vows.

He flipped through the book and started reciting one of his favourite passages, only a trace of an accent distinguishable. "_Und Herrn und Frau'n am Hofe, die waren sehr geplagt, die Königin und die Zofe gestochen und genagt, und durften sie nicht knicken, und weg sie jucken nicht. Wir knicken und ersticken doch gleich wenn einer sticht__._" He paused shortly, savouring the aftertaste of the foreign words on his tongue before translating the verse for his son. "The gentlemen and ladies at court were sore distressed; The queen and all her maidens were bitten by the pest, and yet they dared not scratch them, or chase the fleas away. If we are bit, we catch them, and crack without delay."

Father and son looked at one another in mutual apprehension of the deeper meaning of the words. And they smiled.

With a sharp sting in his heart, Lucius realised just how much he missed those evenings they used to spend together, talking and debating fervently about all sorts of things, sometimes ranting and shouting, but most often sharpen their dialectic with carefully measured words, of which those left unspoken were the ones that truly mattered.

"How trenchant." Draco chuckled. "So, tell me, when are you planning to bring _them_ down?"

"Soon. In fact, very soon." The older Malfoy placed _Faust I_ back into the box. Now was the time to tell him.

"I've met Hermione Granger," Lucius said in the most neutral voice he could manage and observed his son who tried to cover up the sudden light shake of his hands. Lucius did not like what he saw, even less what he suspected, considering that particular memory of hers about Draco.

"Do you have something to tell me?" Lucius asked, his voice now devoid of any prior cordiality.

"For Slytherin's sake, don't be so paranoid. What gave you _that_ impression?" Draco muttered indignant, albeit not meeting his father's eyes. "That's absolutely absurd."

That elicited a frown from Lucius. "Is it?" he inquired coldly, the temperature in the room falling to near freezing. "_Son?"_

Nervously, Draco ran his hands through his hair. "She helped me," he confessed reluctantly.

Lucius face went white as a sheet. _That woman! he_ wanted to bellow. Of course it had to be her who helped his son drawing up that absurd plan to study at a Muggle university!

"Sometimes, I wonder if you're truly my son." Lucius voice lashed out like a whip. He could not stop the cruel words coming out from his mouth, knowing that they were not true, barely believing he just acted exactly like his own father would have in such a situation. But that insufferable Mudblood made him boarder along the coast of choleric like a moth drawn to the flame.

However, his son refused to succumb and retorted equally scathing, "Sometimes, I wonder if you ever deserved one."

"Ah, there you go. And I almost considered remarrying," the patriarch said, sarcasm dripping from his voice like treacle.

"Well, maybe you should."

"Yes, indeed. Who knows what might come of it."

"Alright!" Draco spat and murmured, "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"Well, it is no longer my place to criticise your decisions. You're twenty-two. As long as you don't sodomize with Muggles, I couldn't care less with whom you fornicate," Lucius fired off.

"This is unbelievable! Do you think so low of me? I don't fool around with people I actually respect!" Draco said aggrieved, his cheeks showing red angry-glowing blotches. "She's a _friend_ and in fact the only one I have since all others turned out to be backstabbing bumsuckers who don't want their reputation to be tainted by being associated with a _Malfoy_."

Being reminded of their status as pariahs made it increasingly difficult for the older Malfoy to maintain his composure. However, Lucius concealed his emotions on that matter and on Draco's relationship with his protégée, behind a thick mask of indifference as he asked, "Are you done?"

"Yes, sir, I'm done," Draco answered derisively, smoothened his evening jacket, and poured himself a drink, which he downed in one swig.

Lucius pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette from an embellished flat silver case, tapping it several times on the lid before lighting it. After some relaxing draws, which gave him the time to calm down, he finally declared, "I took Miss Granger on as my new protégée."

Stunned silence was followed by an incredulous snort. "You hypocrite," Draco said indignantly, when his expression suddenly changed from surprise into astonishment and genuine awe; it was a small spectacle.

"You took on Hermione? How did you pull that off?" his son asked, accepted the offered cigarette and took a languorous, deep pull that spoke of much practice.

Lucius smirked and swirled his brandy. "You know, it never ceases to amaze me what an efficient weapon truth can be, once it is trimmed and moulded to cater to one's needs, and administered in tiny doses."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "So, you told her about the curse. But you didn't answer my question."

"I made her an offer she couldn't possibly refuse."

"Ah, is that so?" The younger Malfoy searched for any tell-tale sign that would give away how far his father went to recruit her.

"Don't bother. This is a matter entirely between her and me," Lucius told him in masterfully accomplished inexpressiveness, and politely refused the cigarette Draco wanted to pass back, indicating he was already well provided with his brandy.

His son knew exactly that the extent of ineptness could be as revealing as straightforward blatancy, and Lucius did not need any verbal confirmation of Draco, who added one and one together, concluding that his father did not intend to use her as pawn.

"I know you to be a warlock of great efficiency, so why exactly did you choose her, of all, to break the curse and find the culprits behind that foul campaign against us?" Draco inquired, although the actual question behind his words was why he decided to invest his time and skills into building her up, besides using her to clean up the mess.

"Ah…" Lucius swiped his finger lazily over his lips. "She has a strong sense of justice, despite her tendency to bend rules and act ruthless, doesn't she?" he stated, enjoying their silent conversation between the lines.

"Oh yes, I can tell you a thing or two about it. You know the secretary in the Wizengamot Administrative Services, the one with the nasty scars all over her face? Edgecombe's daughter? That was Granger's work all over for betraying Dumbledore's Army to the Toad."

"What?" Lucius inquired in surprise. His protégée had more skeletons in the cupboard than he expected. But it did not go unnoticed that his son intended to enhance Hermione's value with that information.

"That stupid girl signed a parchment that was jinxed by Hermione to punish those who would betray their organisation, making them to break out in pimples that spelled the word 'SNEAK' across the entire face and prevent them from confessing," Draco drawled gleefully and took another pull of the cigarette.

"Well, that's an effective way to make sure to find the traitor amidst one's ranks." Deliciously amused, Lucius ran his fingertip idly along the rim of the glass. His last remark subtly indicated that he was quite aware of Draco's determination of protecting Hermione from any harming schemes, which nearly offended Lucius.

Thus, he continued, "She's an incendiary. Just think of how she already managed to rattle the establishment with her demands to acknowledge more rights for magical beings, unconsciously creating a rift between the old and new generation within the ministry. That witch is a promising draft of a chef-d'œuvre." Involuntarily, his mind digressed into thoughts, which involved his protégée's shamelessly delectable legs calling for his undivided attention – Lucius had to clear his throat to refocus. "Her relentless fight for equality paired with that ambitious mind-set of hers qualifies for a…more illustrious career path. However, I do not foster any illusions; the path to perfection is going to be a path of trial and tribulation. She lacks of any spark of charisma to make her presence felt, which is a vital asset in leadership in a way gills are to fish – She's quite a challenge."

"But you, Father, are a formidable artist," Draco said slyly, to which Lucius inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. "With her reputation and the position she holds as Potter's trusted advisor, it would be an affront to treat her like a pawn as the Ministry currently does, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, I quite agree with you," Lucius added, following the chain of thoughts, which nearly came to completion. "The witch is too skilful and dangerous as a future enemy. But with no apt patron to guide her..."

"…she can still be shaped and moulded into something better than Saint Potter's lapdog who grows far too confident as Dumbledore's successor of his patronage system. That's why you decided to groom her instead," Draco concluded and leaned forward. "But into what exactly?"

How strange. Why did his son needed verbal confirmation of something so obvious?

"Isn't that plain, Son? Into my Lieutenant and our Golden Ticket back to the place behind the throne – where we belong," Lucius replied nonchalantly.

Draco's reaction was not what he expected, as he ruffled up his hair agitatedly and argued, "That's exactly what Mother–"

The patriarch cut him off with a violent bang of his fist on the table, causing the liquid in his glass to swap over and Draco to cringe. This game was over.

"Don't _ever_ mention her opinion on that matter again. I've had _quite_ enough of it," Lucius hissed angrily with a voice as deadly as basilisk venom. "Your mother doesn't have a clue what it took for me to keep you safe over all those years, or that I went to all lengths to uphold my patronage network and the reputation of my family for as long as I could! But she knew exactly what kind of damage she caused by divorcing me." Lucius ran his hand through his hair, barely withstanding the temptation to smash the next best thing against the wall. There it was again, that nasty, raging dragon in his stomach full of bitter anger solely reserved for his ex-wife. "I cannot believe you actually listen to your mother's silly talks. She never had to lift a single finger in her life in order to get what she wanted. So, never assume she's right on _any_ matter that concerns my trade! Unlike the Blacks, we don't nurture from the dwindling glory of our ancestors; we Malfoys are born and made to rule! By Armand's wand, just look at you!" Lucius bawled and made a vigorous sweeping gesture towards his son's shocked face. "You're _my_ successor in the first place and _then_ her heir in the second! Don't you ever forget that, Draco, do you understand?"

Still poleaxed from his father's outburst, Draco stared wide-eyed at him and murmured, "Yes, Father."

Lucius massaged his temples in exhaustion and thought angrily that someone should rap Narcissa's knuckles for trying to groom his successor into some Pygmy Puff.

"Forgive me," Lucius voiced, now softly, and reached for his son's arm. "I should have let you in much earlier on the whole truth behind a thousand years of success; what it truly takes to be a Malfoy. But are you ready now, Son?"

Draco's gaze wandered down to his arm where his father held him, coming to rest on the Malfoy crest ring. The tense silence elicited thousand 'ifs' and 'buts' in Lucius' mind, buzzing relentlessness and escalating into one overwhelming fear that his only son might simply abandon him –

"Draco?" Lucius said, surprised that he still managed to sound so impenetrable although his insides threatened to turn into dust. Hoping his son could sense how much this meant to him, Lucius tightened his grip on Draco and looked into the same inscrutable and adamant depth he faced whenever he watched into the mirror, whenever he stared into an ancestor's portrait. Those were the eyes of his father, his grandfather, and every single Malfoy in the last thousand years.

And then his own flesh and blood finally answered with gentle self-assurance, his voice warm and quiet, "Of course I am, Father."

Lucius patted Draco on his shoulder.

"Good."

* * *

Pigeon's blood = The most favoured shade of red for rubies

Mogok = Also called the Valley of Rubies, is a city in Myanmar. Foreigners are only allowed into the area with a special permit

Guernsey = Is a British offshore haven for tax evasion

Foie gras de canard = Fattened duck liver

Faust = A famous tragic play by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, which is considered as one of the greatest works of German literature. The mentioned verses are from Faust I, Part I, Auerbach's Cellar. Naturally, Lucius chose to recite Mephistopheles

Fräulein = An out-dated German form of address for girls and unmarried women

* * *

**A/N II: Share your thoughts, dear readers**


	9. Chapter 9: Draco Lucius Malfoy

**A/N: Thanks goes to LiterallyLiterary for Beta-reading. She's such a great help! HP = JKR**

**Finally the new chapter! Thank you all so much for your reviews for the last one! I apologize for the long wait but graduation, lots of champagne, a great hot summer, and my own criticism got in the way.**

**Here's the music for the second part: If I Had A Heart – Fever Ray**

* * *

"If you're going through hell, keep going." – Winston Churchill

* * *

**9 Draco Lucius Malfoy**

"Your father is quite a character."

Draco, who stood on a chair, unscrewing the lamp body on the ceiling, paused. "Yes, he is," he responded curtly and continued with the handiwork.

Holmberg cleared his throat. "I'm not being very subtle, am I?"

Draco handed over the lamp body. "The less you know, the better, trust me. Now, would you mind giving me that light thingy over there?" he said impatiently and pointed at the light bulb on his escritoire. With a chuckle Holmberg did as asked, and after successfully changing the light bulbs, Draco stepped down from the chair to examine the result while Holmberg switched the light on and off.

"See that wasn't so difficult," the Muggle said in a mocking tone.

"Sod off. I changed the light thingy, not you."

"It's called a light _bulb_," Holmberg said drily, to which Draco rolled his eyes, shut his Swiss Army Knife with a snap, and ran his finger along the engraving: _Patience_. It was the most important virtue he had learned during his studies. Hermione once said that he needed it. Cheeky witch. She was the only one who successfully managed to make him want to strangle and hug her at the same time. What a lucky girl she was that he desisted from both.

What then followed was an exchange of creative insults between the two new roommates and Draco was enjoying every bit of it, despite Holmberg being a Muggle with whom he had the misfortune of sharing the dormitory. Henry Holmberg was the illegitimate offspring of a former Swedish fashion model (Draco had a hard time believing it to be an actual occupation) and a high-ranking member of the _Chaebol, _Korean's power elite. Given that circumstance, some people might have reserved pity for Holmberg, being a bastard with no significant inheritance in perspective. However, in Draco's eyes, his roommate's status was nothing less than a wild card, enabling him to do whatever he pleased without bearing the responsibility of stepping into his father's shoes.

In moments of resentment, Draco envied him for it.

"I'm going to have some company. Could you just phone me before coming back to the dormitory?" Draco asked as Holmberg reached for his jacket. His request sounded more like an order in bad disguise. That was, of course, intentional.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not planning to come back this night," Holmberg answered with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Have fun," he added, wriggled his eyebrows ambiguously, and left.

Draco sighed, irritated, but did not feel like clearing up this misunderstanding. Instead, he locked the door and dialled a number, just to hang up after the first ringtone. A second later, Hermione apparated into his dormitory, dashed forward and barked, "You!" She shook him violently, nearly throwing him off balance, while her eyes were shooting daggers at him. "This is your fault!"

With slow determination he forced her hands from his chest and her eyes started to glisten with unshed tears she kept from spilling by biting her lips. "Sorry, what did you say again? _I can_ _handle him perfectly well_?" Draco drawled patronizingly, tilted her chin up, and raised an eyebrow, to which Hermione moaned and slapped his hand away.

"Don't give me that look," she said flustered, sounding half annoyed, half embarrassed.

The wizard wrinkled his nose at her incapability to admit a fault. To be fair, he was not an inch better. "You know very well that I would never set you up."

Hermione folded her arms and tapped her foot expectantly. "Do tell!"

That stance meant she wanted an apology, Draco realised, and he leaned his head back to look down the ridge of his nose at her; he was not willing to give one.

"You have a strange way of showing your friendship, Malfoy," Hermione continued bossily, "asking me to spend time with your father, appealing on our friendship and insisting on a favour."

"Oh, don't play dirty with me by accusing me of abusing our friendship!" he countered petulantly, "You know that isn't true!"

"You've asked for it!" she cried shrilly.

"Because it was his birthday!" he shouted back with much more vigour than intended. "I've asked you because I thought you'd…" Draco continued reconciliatory, "you know…" Yes, what was he thinking anyway? "You didn't sound that aggravated as you texted me and so..."

"What? That it's okay asking me to spend time with you father only because I didn't try to do him in?"

Draco clenched his hands into fists. He felt a rush of heat rising up his head. Of course he had not wanted his father to have to spend his birthday alone, brooding over the past like some grumpy old sod. And, admittedly, it may have been a bold idea to ask Hermione, but not a silly one. Father _did_ recognize that being on civil terms ('good' might be a tad too optimistic) with her might open some doors again. Besides, his father valued challenging conversations, even more so with a woman who actually made use of her brain, which in general could not be said of most people. And conversing with a witch, who, on top of being bright, happened to be famous and attractive altogether, surely promised enough diversion.

Apparently, his father thought so too – and further.

Draco congratulated himself silently and wished for a brick wall to bang his head against.

As if Hermione sensed what was going on, her gaze softened. "Draco…"

But he could not withstand that understanding look of hers, those innocent, brown, deer-like orbs that spoke of so much sympathy. And before his resistance started to melt away, he turned his back on her. "It's no good crying over spilt potion," he said while preparing tea. "There's a tray full of elven-made madeleines from my mother," he continued, trying to steer away from that particularly disconcerting topic. Unfortunately, Hermione did not take the bait, Draco deduced correctly, feeling her scrutinizing gaze threatening to burn a hole right through him. He knew exactly how much she hated it when he turned his back on her. She called it disrespectful. He called it keeping face.

"Hermione, don't make me say it…" Draco muttered after a long and uncomfortable silence.

He felt a touch on his back. "Look at me," she said placatory.

Draco turned and focused his concentration on more trivial, less affecting details; like that she looked rather lovely with those figure-flattering trousers and matching blouse. Who would have thought that little Miss Know-It-All would acquire a bit of taste along the way? Although Hermione was not gifted with the kind of flawless beauty his mother was, she held her own charm with her pretty face and compelling smile. But it were her eyes that did the job of persuading any man that she was pretty - and her legs. Consequentially, these attributes did not go unnoticed by some of his fellow male students whenever they went out, but Draco found it quite amazing how fast Muggles minded their own business again upon receiving looks that promised a slow, agonizing and thoroughly executed castration.

"Fine!" Draco huffed, at last. "I'm sorry, and now stop giving me the silent treatment. Slytherin knows, I've already started speaking to myself in your absence because it's the only way to ensure intelligent conversations."

Hermione sniggered and smirked triumphantly. "Apology accepted. So, what's his game?"

This was the question he dreaded and Draco had to finally acknowledge the graveness of the situation he was trapped in. Her question indicated decisions he had to make, sides he had to pick, loyalties he had to betray. So why was Hermione daring to ask that question? Did she not know into which position she forced him?

"Ah, family above all, isn't it?" she said, interpreting his silence. Of course, it was family above all. Only, she was rather slow off the mark for not realizing that he actually considered her in his own wicked logic to be somehow part of it.

"This is not about taking sides, so don't make me choose one. I'm not the enemy here, nor is my father, in any case. This isn't war," he explained, trying not to raise his voice anew.

"Then what is it about? This _relationship_?" she asked, making a face as if she bit into a sour apple.

"It's about chance, Hermione," Draco answered patiently. "In case you didn't realise, you are in a very privileged position. Father didn't take on a political protégée ever. Use that opportunity and learn from him."

She jutted out her lips, clearly not agreeing with him. "Should I feel honoured?"

"Yes, you should. He knows his trade better than anyone else."

"Oh, yes he does. Your father could sell a stove to a Dragon in exchange for its soul and make it feel good about it. And that's exactly what I fear," she said gloomily. "I'm trapped in a dubious patron-protégée-relationship with one of the most notorious wizards alive. My whole career is at his mercy! What if people find out? What would happen to my work? Am I not corrupt if I keep it a secret? And how could I ever think it was a good idea to take the deal? If he wanted help to get rid of the curse, he could have simply asked! It's not that I don't acknowledge his contribution to the hunt for Voldemort's followers."

A shudder ran down Draco's spine at the mention of the Dark Lord's name but he was careful not to show his unease. "Firstly, as much as I love to hear you slagging yourself, stop sulking. No-one will find out and if they should, no-one would dare believe it for a second. You're Hermione Granger, Potty– _Potter_'s best friend. Secondly, Malfoys never ask, they demand. And lastly, would you mind lowering your moral standards to a feasible level? No wonder I barely like you."

"Oh, judging from what you did to me, you don't like me at all," Hermione answered sardonically, threw herself down to his chesterfield, and conjured paper-folded birds that flew around the room.

Draco watched the little origami-birds flapping their papery wings.

"It's been six years. You don't know what I like," he said quietly.

"Well, I know you like to bicker with me and I know you like insulting me," Hermione replied, not registering his faint blush as she was occupied with colouring the birds with her wand.

"It's called _teasing_, Granger, and I have to uphold what little dignity I've got left," Draco drawled haughtily, relieved that he had not given himself away.

"Oh, says the dethroned pure-blood Prince who studies and lives among Muggles."

"Hm, I finally understand why my father took you under his wing. Maybe you two could write a guide called _How to Insult and Humiliate People While Feeling Good About It_."

"Only if you write the foreword. In exchange, I will write yours, or _Applied Sciences of the Art of Human Exploitation by Lucius and Draco Malfoy."_

"Gladly," he answered, feeling faintly posh. "And you accuse me of not liking you."

"Bah!" Hermione flicked her wand, to which the little birds started chirping merrily.

"What? You aren't satisfied with my apology and the peace offering of an evening with the finest pure-blood bachelor of the British Wizarding world and aspiring author?" exclaimed Draco, emoting indignation.

"What's the use of an apology from someone who's going to abandon me anyway?"

"Oh, that's low down. If my father weren't such a supremacist he'd start courting you."

Hermione gagged as if she swallowed a spoon of sand. "Ouch, Draco! You're the worst!"

He bowed his lips into a relieving smirk. They were in familiar territory again. "See? That's why you, my dear, have to keep on delivering me from my sins, and save my mother's house-elf from self-mutilation by eating up those madeleines."

"Only if you promise me that you won't let me down," Hermione said and watched one of the paper birds bump into the poster of one of Draco's favourite movies, _A Clockwork Orange_.

"Of course. It's the least I can do for you. Now, let's continue our game from last time and tell me what happened."

He handed her a cup of tea and made himself comfortable beside her. Like that, they spent the rest of the evening and the better half of the night talking and bantering while playing chess.

Although Draco believed that Hermione did not lie as she told him about the incident in New York, Draco had the impression that she was withholding some pieces of the whole story. He did not try to probe – that would have been a clumsy attempt unworthy of a Slytherin. But he was determined to find out, one way or the other.

"I'm glad you're coming back," she said after he took her last knight. "Might take the edge off your father."

"Never," Draco said with a taut undertone, to which brown eyes stared at him questioningly. "The only one who could calm him down was my mother. But they're not exactly on speaking terms. I doubt that they will ever be again." He knew all the reasons, also the ones his parents were not aware of, giving his privilege as onlooker who had to endure their rows for months before they finally rang down the curtain to over twenty years of marriage.

"Why didn't you tell me about your father's curse?" Hermione asked as she moved the rook to take one of his knights in return.

"Because he asked me to stay quiet about it, since he doesn't know for sure who's involved," he said. "Check."

She scowled and knocked down her king. "And mate."

"Just half as fun if they don't knock themselves off," Draco drawled, pleased with himself. "That's my third victory in a row."

"From a series of nine losses in a row," Hermione specified while he scuffed to the window for a smoke.

It was snowing again, he noticed, as he blew the smoke out of the window. "I didn't quite know what to think when he told me that he took you on. But what I can say is that the deal sounds fair." He fixed his gaze on Hermione who was listening expectantly. "People can slag him off but those who actually conduct business with my father know that he's a wizard who keeps his word and always pays his debts. But that doesn't mean that you can afford to lower your guards. He has a way with words –"

"Oh, pray tell," she butted in.

"– and expects everyone to hold up their end of the bargain."

Draco had a back-flash of the first time leaving for Hogwarts. They had been standing on platform 9 ¾ when his father took him aside and taught him the importance of cleverly drafted agreements, and making sure that those who entered them kept their ends of it.

"_Of course,_ _trust__ is good but control is better. Boy, do you remember what I told you about how men ought to be governed?"_ his father asked, to which he answered carefully, _"Through vices, greed and fear."_

At that time, Draco did not exactly understand what vices were, despite looking it up, but he supposed it did not matter, since his father patted his shoulder in proud approval - something he usually only did on Birthday and Christmas.

_"Good. Very good."_

Draco's mother had been waving him goodbye as he got on the Hogwarts Express, and the last thing he saw was his father stroking his mother's back while she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Shocked by such an open display of sentiments in public, Draco promptly missed tripping Longbottom up who was running past him in search for his stupid toad.

What else could he tell Hermione about his father to make sure he actually remained heir-apparent?

"My father has a foul temper. So, whatever you do, just avoid the topics of divorce, Muggle taxes, and his involvement in the Second Wizarding War. Also, he detests unpunctuality and sloppiness. But that shouldn't be a problem for you –" Draco stubbed out his cigarette "– at least the latter two points," he added, making her arching her eyebrows as in challenge.

"No, no, no. Just don't even think about it," he warned her, earning himself a reconciliatory smirk that was not entirely convincing.

"I think I'll call it a night." Hermione straightened herself up, stretching her body in a cat-like fashion.

"Hermione." Draco stepped close to her.

He was unsure whether to speak the next words but decided to give it a go, borrowing the words of a famous late writer. "Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."

He wanted to tell her more – that she should not forget who she was, that her good-heartedness and bravery inspired their whole generation of witches and wizards, and that he did not want to see that spirit in her perish. Rather, she should finally acknowledge and use that power she held in her small hands to achieve greatness. But he could not. It was an inappropriate display of sentimental incontinence unworthy of anyone who went by the name of Malfoy.

But when suddenly Hermione embraced him into a hug, standing on the tip of her toes, making an effort to hug him properly, he mentally flushed all his previous reservations down the toilet. She was important to him and he was a well-bred wizard, not some socially degenerated wimp, was he not?

And just as he wanted to speak up, she drew back.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered and disapparated.

She was gone.

"Ah, for fuck's sake!" he shouted.

* * *

Draco was reading the same sentence from his book (_Managing Brand Equity)_ for the sixth time without being able to grasp its meaning, when he finally admitted defeat. He threw the highlighter on the desk and leaned back, rubbing his tired eyes. Sleep was what his body craved but what his mind denied him. A deep breath escaped his dry lips and he poured himself a glass of whisky. Or so he tried. The bottle was empty.

"Bugger," Draco groaned and dragged himself up to wash his face with cold water.

He stared into the looking glass, hearing the echo of his father's fuming voice in his head. "_You're _my_ successor in the first place and then her heir in the second!"_

Yes, he was his father's spitting image, his legacy, the family's sole son and heir.

_"Draco, quit trying to live up to your father's expectations"_, his mother told him. "_You're also a Black, don't you forget that."_

But what features had he inherited from his mother? Where did it show that he was his mother's son?

Draco tilted his chin up, turning his head from side to side. No, there was really nothing of her in him.

_"Only if you promise me that you won't let me down,"_ he remembered Hermione saying.

Would it really come down to picking a side? Could he not just be his own man, find his own way, do what he thought was right?

A shudder ran through his body and festered in his stomach, churning and twisting his guts. "Fuck!" Draco barked and drove his fist into the looking glass. It chinked and split the reflection of his face in two.

He needed diversion.

Half an hour later the blond wizard was leaning back in his armchair trying to focus on the moist and tight sensation, the sucking contractions down there caused by that half-naked thing kneeling between his thighs. It moaned and scratched its painted fingernails along his legs, devouring every rigid inch of him in eager devotion.

"Is your girlfriend as good as me? The one with the curly hair?" it asked in an unsuccessful attempt to please him.

Anger flared up in him and Draco fisted its blonde-dyed hair roughly, making the Muggle groan his name in a vulgar manner. That tart was supposed to nosh him, not attempt to make poor conversation.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared down at it once more, observing it licking his weeping erection as if it were a lolly threatening to melt away.

Somehow it must have felt his gaze, since it looked up, its eyes full of want. Nausea overcame him.

"I bet it turns you on to fuck us both at the same time," it misinterpreted.

"Shut up," Draco snapped, suppressing the urge to slap it for the offensive remark and, in fact, for everything she represented.

Why were Muggle-girls in this part of the world so crude, so lurid, so false? Dyed, inked, clipped, padded, glued, pierced – Draco moved his fingers along the shell of its ear – they celebrated self-mutilation as a form of individual expression.

How pathetic. As if it would change anything about whom they were.

Draco moved its head to increase the pace as he felt the climax building up in him and he grunted satisfied from the feeling of the fleshy walls convulsing around him.

"Let's do it," it whispered and moaned lustfully.

_Certainly not_, Draco thought, tilted its head back, forcing it to take him all the way in. He pumped, one, two, three times, shut his eyes and let out a deep redeeming growl, feeling a rapture cursing through his whole body until he finally exploded inside its mouth, rewarding him with the sought relief, and vaulting him into another dimension.

_Finally. Finally._

And he sank into the divine emptiness, losing the sense of time and space, floating, forgetting, being nothing at all and everything there was, being himself.

Just himself.

And then his heart made another beat, yanking him back to the here and now, where he was Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Wizard.

Pure-blood.

Successor.

Draco watched how his viscous release trickled down sluggishly from the corners of the Muggle's mouth.

Death Eater.

Traitor.

Coward.

"Swallow," he ordered in a cold voice, not allowing any room for objection, to which the Muggle complied and gulped, its eyes watery from the pain he must have caused.

"Hey!" it exclaimed upset, its face flushed bright red.

Unaffected by its reaction, he drew his trousers up and left the seat.

"Leave," Draco said with his back on it.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he heard it yelling in disbelief of what he just said, its voice shaky from embarrassment.

Slowly, he turned and looked down at the Muggle, having yet to move from the kneeling position. "Are you deaf as well as stupid? Get out of here."

Tears of anger were pouring down its cheeks. "You motherfucking bastard!" It grabbed its clothes and slapped him. "Fucking hypocrite! I pity your girlfriend!" the Muggle screeched and stumbled out of his dormitory, slamming the door shut.

"That makes two of us, slag."

He went for the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower, scrubbing every inch of his skin and only stopped when it finally started to burn.

Noticing that his legs began to shake, he leaned against the bathroom wall.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," he rasped and bit his lower lip, barely registering the pain. A trail of blood mingled with the twirling water, making its way down the drain.

He pressed his palms against his face.

And wept bitterly.

* * *

"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them" = The quote is from William Shakespeare's _Twelfth Night_

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**A/N II: I hope you liked this one and would love to get some feedback.**


	10. Chapter 10: Developing Taste

**A/N: Thanks goes to LiterallyLiterary for Beta-reading. I can't mention enough what a great help she is. HP = JKR**

**After suffering from a little writing crisis (which I cured with research) I finally posted the new chapter. Thank you all so much for your reviews for the last one and please keep on reading BSaB. It's going to get really hot in the next chapters, hehe**

**Because of the recent events in Paris I want to say that love will always triumph over hate**** #PorteOuverte**

**MLE = Department of Magical Law Enforcement**

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"Power is my mistress. I have worked too hard at her conquest to allow anyone to take her away from me." – Napoleon Bonaparte

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**10 Developing Taste**

_Papers ready for signing?_ Yes.

_Merchandise and inventory list ready for inspection?_ Yes.

_Pain-Killers and suppressors ready for intake?_ Yes.

_Connecting flight on time?_ Yes.

_Boss on time?_ No.

Trying to vent off his nervousness, Marius began playing with the newest addition of his collection of nicked fountain pens. Aurora Optima was the name of the lovely lady he had 'borrowed' from a Burmese diplomat as a nice exchange for the speed money he had invested in order to get a regular visa to Mogok. The fountain pen consisted of a solid 14K gold nib, destined for signing papers that were highly official, strictly confidential and with a high probability of breaching more human rights than a Cambodian brothel.

His boss was five minutes late, Marius determined after glancing at his worn Vacheron Constantin that had belonged to his late father. It was an ugly item, plain and worthless in the eyes of common men, but it did the job as tell-tale artefact of Marius' social standing for those who mattered.

Slightly nervous, Marius adjusted his perfectly fitting tie and brushed an imagined speck of dust from the front of his bespoke suit when he finally heard footsteps in the hallway, followed by an energetic entrance of his boss. Marius sucked in a deep breath. He was astounded at the fascinating sight of his doppelgänger striding into the hotel room. Ten more years and he would be wielding that body with the same mature nonchalance like him. However, at present Marius had to content himself by acting like the over-confident Old Etonian he was.

"Thought you wouldn't make it," Marius said and caught his boss' jacket in mid-flight, followed by tie, waistcoat, shirt and trousers.

"Bloody Friday traffic," his doppelgänger swore.

He nodded. "You've got another minute. Pills are on the counter."

Just clad in shorts, his boss swallowed the pills and rushed into the bathroom. Not a moment later, he heard restrained groans of pain. Thank God he did not witness the transformation. Last time Marius did he had suffered from nightmares for a whole week – and he was a man who prided himself of witnessing things most people did not know even existed.

"How did it go?" Marius asked, raising his voice so his boss could hear him through the door.

"Frederick is taken care of and will resume his awfully fascinating life as city boy at Lehman's next month. His previous employer will be remembered as being a bit on the boring end of Private Banking," his boss answered in his natural tone.

Marius laughed derisively and folded the clothes. "Impeccable timing it is, giving him a golden handshake in February."

Fully dressed, Lucius emerged from the bathroom, his face still a bit red from the painful transformation. "We can't afford anything out of the ordinary. Mind-alterations are delicate business," he said while signing the pile of papers.

"And the replacement?" Marius inquired, carefully blowing the ink dry before he let them disappear into his briefcase.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Muggle-born who specialised after graduating from Hogwarts. Shame he's a Hufflepuff. However, you might find some common ground. He had been on the list for Eton before he received the letter." Lucius rummaged in his attaché and handed Marius a file.

"Seven grand _and_ shares?" Marius asked, a little bit miffed while skimming through the papers. This was only two grand less than he earned. And he was family.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "With an Unbreakable Vow."

Well, salaries were relative, Marius thought and handed over the magically expanded velvet pouch.

"Alright, here are the gems and the necessary certificates. Furthermore, I've already added the boy as beneficiary of the foundation."

"Good," Lucius answered while holding one of the gems against the light.

"The bank closes at five thirty and I better take a leave now. Got another appointment." More precisely, a hard fuck with a high-class bird, _Ancien Roséen_, refined, confident, pretty, fiancée of a scion of a banker dynasty and just the right thing to stroke his massive ego on a Friday afternoon.

"That particular recreational activity of yours will once be your downfall if you don't act with more discretion," Lucius remarked quietly while examining the other gems.

Marius' felt like he had been caught with his hands in the cookie jar and it took a moment for him to regain his composure. "I'll be more cautious in future," he promised with a smooth voice and made a light bow.

* * *

"It really wasn't necessary to fetch me. I was nearly done," Hermione said while tightening her thick coat around herself. "And you didn't need to- to have greeted me that way in front of my colleagues." There was a light tremble in her voice. "They might get the wrong impression, you know." She huddled herself deeper into her coat. "I'm–"

"Oh, cut it off," Lucius said gruffly while trying to concentrate on some papers about God knew what. "My time is limited and I'm certainly not waiting for you to grace me with your presence whenever it pleases you. We've agreed on a time and I expect you to adhere to it. It's a matter of principle, manners, and professionalism, and right know I have the feeling that you possess neither one of these traits." His pen squeaked as he underlined some text and wrote something over it that looked suspiciously like 'bullshit'. "Good Lord, you're such a prude."

Hermione reddened. "Oh, you! You could at least have had the decency to _pretend_ living in the twenty-first century and not kissing my hand like some upper-class eccentric who's just gotten over the fact that America won its independence."

He looked up with a scornful smirk on his face. "So, you rather want to be greeted the local way?"

Her heart made a leap in a mute outcry of protest and she slid into the corner of her side of the car, deliberately staring out the window. She was tired and hungry and now she was embarrassed, too, as her mind conjured the image of him kissing her cheeks. But the mere fact that she felt embarrassed made her angry; she greeted people like that every day, so why should it be any different with him?

"Where are we headed anyway?" she asked, trying to clear her mind of distressing thoughts.

"You'll see," he said curtly and resumed his reading, upon which Hermione huffed and draped her scarf tight around her neck.

The car was driving uphill, away from the city into the countryside, passing by local vineyards and picturesque mansions of which its white facades and snow-topped roofs glowed faintly blue in the evening light. It grew full dark when the car came to a halt, and as they stepped out Hermione found herself in the courtyard of a small, illuminated estate, which must have been about eight hundred years old, as far as she could tell from the rustic stonework, and renovated multiple of times throughout the centuries. Like most castles, it was nestled on top of a hill, surrounded by a small vineyard, and she could even make out the glittering lights from the city, which was partly reflected by the dark, rippling surface of Lake Geneva.

They walked through the arched gate and crossed the snow-covered bailey to the entrance of the restaurant Hermione now recognised as one of the best addresses in the canton. A wall of delightful heat welcomed them into the estate. Simple chandeliers hung from the wooden ceiling beams, illuminating the whole interior in a soft light, and hardwood stairs and banisters were attached to rustic work decorated by selected still life oils. The house was devoid of any ostentatious décor of the _Ancien Régime_ as if to reinstate that this castle had never been seized by some puffed-up Frenchmen.

Hermione and Lucius took a seat near the large hearth in the former knight's hall. A starched tablecloth covered the table, which was laid with silverware and fragile, thin-stemmed wine glasses. Casual conversations, relaxed laughter, and honest smiles determined the atmosphere. It became clear that guests left their sorrows at their workplace in order to spend quality time with the people they actually cared about. She felt a little bit out of place, being in company with her biggest sorrow in form of a blond wizard who chose the tasting menu for them both.

A waiter was filling the glasses with some local white wine, and Hermione tapped her fingers nervously on the table, not knowing if she should start a conversation or not.

"Go on, take a sip of your aperitif and stop fidgeting. You make the chair look like a misplaced torture instrument," he said drily.

"Excuse me, Lucius, for finding it difficult to relax around you," she said acerbically and downed the glass of white wine just to keep her hands occupied.

His eyes flicked over the empty glass. "Well, that's one way to do it."

"I'm just adapting to local customs."

"And clearly very eager to demonstrate," Lucius parried and lifted his eyebrows as the waiter arrived with the first course. "I assume, you have thought about your ambitions?"

"What? Er, well, yes –" she answered, distracted by the mouth-watering smell of soup.

"Later," he drawled dismissively.

Deciding that her urge to still her hunger was overpowering the one to fight back, she took a spoon of her consommé and sighed with relish. Lucius dipped a slice of freshly baked bread into his soup, which was in her eyes a sensational discovery of the frightfully ordinary, reminding her once more that she was facing a man, not a savage manticore.

Second, third, fourth, and fifth courses came and went without either of them speaking much besides complimenting the dishes and criticising the wine (looking like red ink mixed with urine according to Lucius, which made her snort a sip up her nose). And by the last course, chocolate mousse with cognac, she felt wholly contented with the world and herself.

"You already have a plan how we are going to approach this, do you?" she asked while she licked off her spoon in hope for one last taste of the dessert.

Lucius was not exactly looking into her eyes, but lower, down at her mouth. "Naturally," he replied, still focusing on her mouth and she quickly put the spoon down, to which his eyes darted up.

"Both matters require you to be closer to the ministry, to be part of the establishment in order to find the ones who cursed me and to have you gaining more influence, " he explained. "Of course, we can't have you snooping around with everyone noticing but there are other, more subtle ways to attain that sort of information. But first tell me, Hermione, have you ever thought about a promotion?"

"Everyone does that once in a while but I like my job as it is," she answered reluctantly, trying not to give away how much she actually thought about it in the last couple of weeks since Harry got promoted as new Head of the Auror Office.

"However, your current position keeps you from climbing up the ladder of the MLE. And to be blunt, your connection with the ICOW and being on that taskforce does more damage than good."

"What do you mean by that?" Hermione asked defensively. "The ICOW is an important organisation for the whole Wizarding world. Without it, we would not be able to reinforce the International Statute of Secrecy, especially since Muggle technology is so far advanced and keeps developing at such a dangerous speed. It is inevitable to strengthen international relationships and foster international collaboration and–"

"I know, I know," Lucius waved her off. "But it doesn't change the fact that it isn't an organisation in high regard, except in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. And since the ICOW runs under that department, you are being regarded as another conceited member of the Cozy Club. Worse, in your case, a heroine who abused her reputation and connections to get one of those posts, which are usually given to more experienced officials."

"But it's just the taskforce! I'm still in MLE and I've got the job because I was the best-suited candidate," Hermione said. "I'm aware that there are people talking behind my back but it could not possibly be that bad."

He shot her a contemptuous look in response that made her insides freeze and burn at the same time.

"I'm absolutely against going back behind the desk," she said resolutely. "And I'm definitely not going to beg for another job." Despite the hard work and isolation from her friends, she loved her job. A promotion meant that she had to go back to England, where she would be exposed to the public.

"Perkins, your superior, is thinking of retiring now that things are running smoothly in his office. You do know that?"

"Of course I do. My co-workers, are already pecking one another's' eyes out, circling the post like hungry vultures, ready to strike as soon he lifts his bottom off that chair," she said without bothering to cover the distain in her voice.

"And as I take it, you are not willing work under any of their leadership, which is why you chose to keep your field work job? Tell me, do you think it's a wise decision?"

"I'm not regretting anything, if that's what you're implying. It's just… they are my seniors, and, I'm not yet experienced–"

"Yet, you step aside because you think you're not up to the task?" His lips quirked at the corners.

"How can I possibly be Perkins' successor if others have much more experience than I do!"

"So you rather want to see your department going down the drain because of being run by an inept dunce who has the power to withdraw you from the taskforce whenever he feels like it and against your will?" Lucius continued, now not bothering to hide his amusement any longer.

Hermione's throat had gone dry. "Alright, alright, so what do you have in mind, then? Want me to poison my co-workers, blackmail them?" she asked disparagingly to wipe that contemptuous smirk of his face.

His expression cooled instantly. Lucius bent forward and spoke so quietly she had to emulate him. "Dearest, if I wanted them dead, it wouldn't happen through your hands." His calmness raised her hackles up. She wanted to draw back, but he clutched her arm, making her gasp in surprise. "I'll let this pass one more time, but in future I'll have none of your cheek."

She tried to pull her hand away but he was so strong that it didn't budge an inch. "Look at me," he demanded and when she did, his glare felt like needles piercing through her eyes.

Not being able to hold that glare of his any second longer she finally hissed, "Fine!"

Instantly, Lucius relinquished his grip, his fingertips grazing over her skin. Sweat ran down her back and her heart was beating as if she had just run a mile.

"Fine," Hermione repeated softer after she had come to terms that he was right. She had to sacrifice her privacy and anonymity if she really wanted to get ahead.

Lucius leaned back, his features relaxed again. "I want you to accept any social invitations to whatever event, show your face, smile, mingle, and have nice chats with the mob. Get a sense of the current public mood. You let them know that you're not quite satisfied with your current appointment and that you'd perhaps seek for new challenges in, let's say, the private industry sector."

"Word will travel fast. It will become a political issue." One Hermione rather wanted to avoid, truth be told.

"And that's exactly what you want. How would it look like for the new administration if the second member of the Golden Trio suddenly decides to leave the ministry?"

Hermione emptied her glass of wine. She was beginning to understand what his so-called 'subtle ways' contained of. "Every invitation? What about silly garden-parties, pumpkin exhibitions and red-ribbon events?"

"Especially those," he said reassuringly.

And with the precision and tact of a watchmaker, Lucius disclosed his plan to Hermione, who was listening intently, absorbing every of word, only interrupting if she needed elaboration. There was something very exciting on colluding with a former enemy. Additional to his instructions he handed her a stack of files on every Wizengamot member, and she flipped through them, quickly noticing how well-written and structured they were. Handwritten notes in red used up most of the free space on the pages, adding personal thoughts or referring to attachments.

"Henry Spencer-Moon has a secret second family with his mistress and has a Squib daughter he had put up for adoption?" she asked, scandalized. The old wizard, son of the former Minister of Magic Leonard Spencer-Moon, was one of the few supporters of her elf-welfare bill and always threated her very kindly and respectful like a favourable uncle. Hermione kept on reading until she arrived to the passage of Henry's involvement in the wizarding wars. Enraged, she tossed the file back onto the stack.

"Does it surprise you?" Lucius asked curiously, twisting his signet ring unconsciously.

"Of course it does! He's an avid supporter of the new administration, his father was friends with Winston Churchill and now I have to learn that he financed Voldemort with half a million Galleons and was in the committee of the Muggle-born registration office! This can't be true!"

Lucius laughed, more sardonic than condescending, rose from his chair and indicated her to follow him.

They entered a smaller room and settled into one of the cosy looking sofas that were spread around the pool table, which was currently in use. She ordered brandies for the two of them while he lit a cigarette and took a long drag in the same fashion his son used to. Hermione would have loved nothing better than to go home to satisfy her curiosity and fuel her anger by reading into the files. However, their business was not yet finished.

"I've made a list of my political goals," she said, her fingers itching to take the paper out of her bag.

"Show me then," he answered after another languid draw. The smoke swirled upwards and, unlike common cigarettes, hung sweet and thick in the air.

Lucius went through her list, his eyes dancing from right to left, not giving the slightest hint of what he thought about her paper.

"And?" Hermione asked after he was finished, expecting him to admit that it was good and carefully thought out.

"Hm…" Lucius rubbed his chin lazily and handed the paper back to her. "This is absolute rubbish."

Her insides turned cold. "What? What do you mean, this is absolute rubbish?" Devastated, she went on defending her paper, which she brandished animatedly. "Only because you don't believe in social egality doesn't mean it's rubbish! Achieving equality by abolishing Muggle-born-discriminating pure-blood laws, introducing proper and transparent Wizengamot member elections and transparent appointment processes of executive positions within the Ministry to prevent nepotism and discrimination of minorities, making Muggle Studies mandatory at Hogwarts, strengthening diplomatic ties with the British Muggle government, and extending the rights of other magical beings such as House-Elves and Goblins doesn't sound stupid in my opinion!"

Unfazed by her passionate speech, Lucius stubbed out his cigarette and answered, "The big flaw in your plan is that you put goals and strategies into one kettle. What do you really want to achieve with such poorly conceived ideas? Do you want to restrain pure-bloods instead of empowering Muggle-borns? Is that your brilliant solution for achieving equality among Wizarding kind? How can you ever expect the current administration to consider even one of those suggestions when they are intended to undermine their authority and power? How do you think will people react to a restrictive government after a period of terror and constant surveillance?" Lucius shifted in his seat, his gestures becoming more animated. "The Wizengamot is very traditional, very slow to move and doesn't like having its policies changed. It is very hierarchical and always will be. You have to understand that you deal with people who, when they have meetings with the Minister, enter his office in order of seniority. Even the attempt of changing the seating order would result in a medium-sized outrage."

Hermione took a deep breath and rubbed her palms together. She was at a loss for words and felt as if she had been run over by herd of horses.

"What do you suggest I do then?" she asked subdued and stared at the floor. Being reminded that she was somehow still an outsider hurt her far more than his verdict on her paper.

"Read and study history. In history lies all the secrets of statecraft."

There was a silent pause as she glanced at him sideways. "You really want this to work out, do you?"

His lips moved, subtle on its play of expression.

Hermione turned in her seat so Lucius could hear her better as she whispered, "You do not merely want – you need me – more than you want to admit."

"But who of us has more to lose?" he asked back, his jaw tensing visibly.

"And who gains more?"

Neither of them dared to blink but Lucius' eyes grew dark, looking as if he could not decide whether he loathed or enjoyed the struggle for the upper hand.

"That is determined on how high you set your aims," he said eventually with a seductive glint in his eyes that made her very conscious about their last meeting back in New York. That glint made her want to share the things she never shared with anyone before; desires so secret and selfish she never told anyone, not even Harry.

Lucius nudged her chin up in an encouraging gesture. It was not avuncular; she found his whole demeanour too sensual to think of him in that way. And by God, that mesmerizing look told her that he was hungry for her confession.

"I –" Hermione breathed, leaving Lucius no choice but to lean closer. Heat was radiating from his body. She could smell him, the male smell, its muskiness mixed with the faint tang of cologne. She breathed in that familiar scent that stood for danger and guilt, hope and opportunity. And of power; power he placed at her disposal. "I want to become Kingsley's successor."

Her voice sounded hoarse and she pressed her eyes shut, fearing that she might have read too much into his demeanour, that he would start laughing at her. Frustrated at how vulnerable she felt, she bit her lip to stifle a groan.

"Hermione…" Lucius said with a voice that felt like balm for her soul, "what higher aim is there than that?"

She felt how he took her hand, how he turned it slowly to kiss the inner side of her wrist, how her pulse rushed under his warm lips. Her fingers touched his face, grazed some strains of hair. Adrenaline rushed through her whole body down her toes and into her tingling fingers. She enjoyed the sensation like a guilty pleasure. There was no harm in that, was it? Just a little sin on their growing list of secrets.

* * *

Ancien Roséen or Ancient Rosean = Alumni of the international boarding school Institute of Le Rosey in Geneva. It's also called The School of Kings

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**A/N II: I'm happy for any reviews**


	11. Chapter 11: State of Affairs

A/N: Thanks goes to LiterallyLiterary for Beta-Reading. HP = JKR.

I'm trying hard but I fail miserably to update frequently. But thank you all so much for your reviews. I appreciate them. And also thank you for continuing reading BSaB.

Music: Grace Jones - I've Seen That Face Before (Libertango)

* * *

"Politics have no relation to morals." – Niccolo Machiavelli

* * *

11 State of Affairs

"It's a pity you're already leaving," Hermione said to Ginny, hugging her goodbye.

"You'll survive." Ginny nodded towards Horace Slughorn, who stood like a barrel amidst his flock of protégés. He nibbled at some amuse bouche, laughing and chatting cheerfully. "As long as Horace doesn't try to make you the centre of attention again," she added with a smirk. "Have a good night."

"You too."

Hermione exhaled as she waved Ginny off. She stared into her glass and wanted nothing more than to drown her massively pent up guilt in a sea of highly potent alcohol. This, however, was not the answer to her problems, therefore insisting on nothing stronger than water.

Ginny had not a clue of what ploy Hermione was concocting with Malfoy—after all, this was the wizard who'd slipped Tom Riddle's diary into her cauldron to discredit her father and have Dumbledore removed from his post.

"Sod it," Hermione murmured in frustration. It was neither the time nor place to sort out her feelings, which overwhelmed her. She was not attending Slughorn's party for fun. This evening was about fanning the Ministry's fear of losing Hermione to the private sector.

Slughorn's party took place in the stately home of Blaise Zabini. He had inherited the estate from Stepfather Number Four, whose mysterious death, only after nineteen months of marriage, had never been resolved.

After the war Zabini made well use of the mourning period by having the entire place refurbished. But not to its former glory, no, he added a touch of cosy understatement to the place: Parquet instead of marble, tapestries instead of paintings, and English furniture instead of French. As part of his reputational rehabilitation he offered a handful of societies his home as a location for their social gatherings. On top of that, Zabini also sheltered those orphaned pureblood children who did not have a place to stay during their school holidays.

His actions would have made Salazar Slytherin proud, Hermione thought sardonically as she explored the tropical winter garden. Unfortunately, it was already occupied by the handsome host who was staring into the darkness at nothing particular.

"Enjoying the view?" she asked as she stepped beside him and raised her empty glass. Zabini greeted her with a smirk and took a big gulp of his liquor.

"How's Draco?" he slurred after a silent moment, plucking a leaf from a plant.

"Ask him yourself. Aren't you his friend?" She gripped her glass so hard that her knuckles went white.

"I'm everybody's friend, Granger," he said derisively and downed his drink. "I want you to meet someone. Follow me."

Zabini did not await her response and strutted back into the drawing room, surprisingly steady for the amount of alcohol he had already consumed. Reluctantly, she followed him.

"May I introduce Derek Bobbin, the elder brother to Melinda," Zabini said with the charm of a perfect gentleman.

Hermione extended her hand to a tall wizard with short dark hair, bristly beard, prominent jawline, and deep-blue eyes. She remembered Melinda from the Slug Club back at Hogwarts but not her brother. She would have definitely remembered him if he had had attended Hogwarts during the same time as her.

Although they exchanged pleasantries with polite restraint, Hermione was quite fascinated by Bobbin. The reflection of the crystal chandeliers made his eyes look as if they sparkled.

"He took over his father's apothecary business last year," Zabini said while having his tumbler refilled to the brim.

"And yet I still sweat blood every morning I enter my office in fear of my old Sire's secretary," Bobbin said. Everyone around laughed, some more sincere than others. "I've heard that you're searching for a new challenge, Miss Granger."

She smiled suggestively, broader than intended. Bobbin cleared his throat and shot a glance of relief at Zabini. It was the same kind of glance she had seen earlier when another wizard tried to recruit her for his company. Hermione found it amazing how fast gossip spread; it only took one insincere remark about her discontent with the current work situation to a colleague. What followed was a flood of invitations to social events from people who wanted to woo her away from the government.

Glasses were refilled anew and after a toast Hermione promised Bobbin to get in touch with him. Zabini guided his attention towards another group of people, expecting Bobbin to follow. He hesitated for a moment and added, only for Hermione's ears to hear, that he would be happy if she would owl him anyway - even if she was not interested in working for him.

Feeling a bit lighter on her heels, Hermione decided that her duty was fulfilled, said goodbye to everyone and apparated to Whitehall.

Light was shining from under the door of Harry's new office, casting a faint glow on the floor.

"Harry?" she called out after entering, making her way through stacks of files and boxes, trying not to knock them down. It would have been a neat office with its dark-panelled walls and green rugs if it would not have had resembled a bureaucratic war zone.

Harry's chair was empty but a pair of feet peeked through a fortress of boxes in the corner. "Harry? Harry! Wake up!"

As if stung by a bee, he jerked up and stumbled over an open box and knocked down a stack. A hiss of disapproval emanated from the portrait behind his desk in which Barty Crouch Sr. crunched up his nose.

She waved her wand to tidy up the mess. "I can't understand why you chose his portrait for your office. Isn't it awful to feel the constant look of disapproval on your neck?"

Crouch scowled but stayed silent. He was only permitted to speak to the Head of the Auror Office.

"No. He's my special advisor and I wouldn't have made it through the first days without him," Harry murmured and rubbed his bloodshot eyes under his spectacles. "How did it go?"

"If you're referring to Horace's party, well. I guess." She handed Harry a pepper-up potion from a small cabinet. "Are those the family registers?" she asked, pointing at the brown boxes near the door.

He nodded. "I still wonder why it would be of any help."

"I need to get a clear picture of the family relations of the past and present Wizengamot members," she explained while rummaging through the boxes. "Did you manage to make copies of the court records and the unsolved Death Eater cases?"

"They aren't unsolved," Harry corrected her and pushed a heavy black box into her arms.

"Sorry, yes, I didn't mean it like that."

"You owe me, Hermione."

"I know! I'm trying to make this right. Don't you want that too?" Her guilty conscience did not need another accuser. "I appreciate everything you're doing for me. I really do."

Her display of bad conscience seemed to soothe Harry. "It's hard to look Ginny in the eye. Not telling her, being secretive about work and whatnot."

"I feel bad too," she said, sounding lost.

Both sighed.

"When will you see him?"

"Tomorrow. And I hope to find at least _something _in those new files. I really have to."

"I'm sure you will. But please be careful with your inquiries if you do any. Although I'd love nothing more than to twist his neck, Malfoy is my most valuable asset. I need to have him cosy and content like a fattened duck, otherwise he'll act wilfully obstructive. I'm not going to have that now that I'm promoted and having everyone's breathing down my neck."

Harry had her full sympathies. She even forgave that he went spare when she told him all about her problems.

"How is it going with your new job, anyway?" she asked.

"I've spent the first week of my new appointment by getting rat-arsed with the other heads and making trade-offs concerning those unofficial arrangements they had with my predecessors. I'm the ruddy puffer between the other members of the Wizengamot, the High Court and my staff. They shove me in front of the journalists as if I'm a mascot, while during the Wizengamot meetings I'm being treated like room meat. And to make things even more irritating, the low-level wars in the sub-departments are escalating-" he paused and adjusted his spectacles. "Forget it. It's nothing."

Hermione refused to be fobbed off with half-truths. "Oh please, Harry. I've told you about my...my special arrangement with Lucius, so tell me what's going on while I'm in the field."

Harry offered her a moment's contemplation before resigning himself to indulge. "Well, Perkins handed in his letter of resignation this week, in strict confidence of course, so word got around within hours. Kingsley won't decide who will become Perkins successor until next month but you know how people are. Sometimes I think that the Ministry doesn't realise that there has been a change of government. They still use the same tactics like before. And I always assumed that restraint is an English trait..."

Hermione smiled at his last remark. Although Harry was a high-ranking mandarin, he still considered himself and the government to be separate quantities entirely.

"Your new appointment brings out the politician in you. Let the people play their silly games. I'm sure Kingsley won't appoint some Janus-faced brownnose for the post," she said in a carefree manner although it was troubling news. Perkin's resignation came earlier than expected.

"I'd be happy if he appointed you. If he ever asks for my opinion I would suggest you. Not because you're my friend but because you're able to run the department better than the rest," he said in earnest.

"Thank you," she replied, touched. "How about the inventory list of confiscated artefacts and the wills?"

"All in the brown box." Harry reached for the file on top of the pile at his desk. "I would be amazed if you would find proof that some of the suspects were involved in the illegal trading of magical artefacts with Muggles."

"Hm…" She fell quiet for a moment. "If I find enough proof to build up a real case, you will be able to prosecute them. Of course, if they voice the desire to plead in mitigation, all they have to do is to provide you with valuable information on Lucius' curse."

Harry nodded. "Yes, I think that most people would prefer a premature retirement at home instead of at Azkaban."

"Exactly."

Thoughts passed behind his eyes like shadows as he leaned back into the chair. "All I want to see is light at the end of the tunnel, you know?"

"Yes, I know you do, Harry, and so do I."

Hermione hugged him and rushed through the door.

* * *

"Am I handling this wrong?" Harry glanced at the portrait of Barty Crouch.

"You know enough to know that you aren't," Barty answered courtly.

Harry remembered the first day of his appointment vividly. He had received the key to the Auror office's vault, which contained all top-secret files that were considered too dangerous to be kept in the Ministry's archive.

Before he entered the vault Harry had been particularly motivated and determined to make incremental changes on how things were run in his office. But after reading through those files he realised that inefficient processes were the least of his problems.

"How did you made peace with yourself because of what you had to do at work? Fighting fire with fire? Allowing the use of Unforgivable Curses against suspects? Convictions without trials? Not telling your wife about what really happens?"

"What gave you the impression I did?" Crouch said testily. "Miss Granger understood that desperate times call for desperate measures. She, unlike others, understood that if one wants to succeed as a person of integrity, it is of utmost importance to always be aware of the consequences of one's own decisions."

Barty's portrait froze in position. This conversation was over.

He felt chided. It was not right to keep Hermione's problems a secret from Ginny, or Ron for that matter, yet he had no other choice if he wanted to protect Hermione and the people who relied on them. Yes, Harry had duties and he should have reported the incident. But he also had responsibilities. And if he were forced to choose between one of them he would always pick responsibilities.

* * *

Hermione poured the last cup of espresso from the Bialetti can and continued studying the cluster of file photos and sticky notes that hung on the wall. The entire wall to her left served as top to bottom chalkboard filled with notes on meta-magical theories and alchemistic formulas, while overflowing bookshelves covered almost every inch of the opposite wall. A cauldron simmered in the old kitchen behind and filled the flat with the fresh smell of a forest after a summer rain. A few tomes lay open on a long, plain fir wood table, exposing encrypted texts and gruel copperplate engravings of human wounds and diseases caused by curses. Crookshanks, her orange Kneazel, snoozed on the old tiled stove, purring whenever the cauldron made an unexpected noise. Hermione liked to work at night in her modest Genevese attic flat, her private little realm that received scarcely any visitors due to the secretive nature of her work.

To draw insights on her research, Hermione often clustered her findings and thoughts on a wall. Whenever she found a new connection, she would add sticky notes. That physical representation helped her to achieve a certain level of order in the chaos of information like with her current research.

_Astonishing how the Wizarding World manages to co-exist with former enemies_, Hermione thought. Of course, communities that small had to learn how to get on with one another if they wanted to continue to survive. But the speed and extent at which war criminals were accepted back into society and welcomed within the halls of the Ministry while many people still awaited their conviction was absurd. It reminded her of those former Nazis and Nazi-supporters who had made a career in the government of the GDR after the demise of the Third Reich.

She furrowed her brows while studying a photo that depicted a small group of people in a small rose-garden, standing around a witch with a baby in her arms. The baby fumbled on the mother's necklace with its small plump hands. It was a fine piece of Goblin craftsmanship and possibly the most valuable heirloom of the pureblood family, Shatiq. Thirty years after the photo had been taken, one of Hermione's colleagues confiscated that same necklace from a Muggle gone insane upon wearing it. Wizengamot member Jim Shafiq voted for a lifetime imprisonment of Lucius although or maybe because his son - the baby on the photo - died at the battle of Hogwarts as a soldier of Voldemort's army. Was he the one behind Lucius' curse? And how did the necklace of his late wife fall into the hands of a Muggle? And why?

Hermione's eyes wandered to another picture of a possible suspect: Richard Brown, the uncle of late Lavender Brown, and father of Rugby player and squib Kelly Brown. Brown voted for a lifetime imprisonment of Lucius after his abortive proposal to punish him with the Dementor's Kiss. He made no secret of his hatred against the Malfoy patriarch. However, Brown was also known as an upright citizen with a clean slate. He loved to breed rabbits and hens in his free time and Hermione could not imagine him as a ruthless, cruel and backstabbing Wizard.

Besides, many people voted for a lifetime imprisonment, and revenge was the prevalent motive. But would it drive people so far as to commit a crime?

Hermione sipped on her espresso as her eyes wandered to another photo. There was Duncan Wright who had an ongoing ownership dispute with Lucius Malfoy about huge tracts of land. Lucius' premature death would settle their argument quite conveniently.

Wright's cousin twice removed, Rosie Fraser, aunt of Melinda and Derek Bobbin, was a co-owner of the apothecary business Derek ran. Having the Malfoys stepping out of that line of business would secure them the monopoly. Some people would do anything for money.

Other Wizengamot members caught Hermione's interests as well, despite them voting for Lucius' release. Those were the people aware that Lucius not only knew about the skeletons in their closets but also had striking evidence of proof, like in the case of Henry Spencer-Moon.

Wizengamot member Angela Fawley maintained a friends-with-benefits relationship with Ludo Bagman. Whereas Ludo's interests focused more on the financial aspect of it, Fawley was head over heels with him. She had sold some of her highly valued Dark Arts books during the war, intending to found a new life the Muggle world. But they never left. Now, Fawley's books were stored in the evidence room of the MLE. Hermione only found out about the ownership of those items because of an old will. Through unknown circumstances, these books fell into the hands of an influential Muggle who used to work in the music industry. He was the leader of a satanic sect which promised its disciples power, success, and enlightenment. Hermione would have liked to question him, but he died months ago from a drug overdose.

Half a dozen members of the Wizengamot were unsuspicious to Hermione and seemed to be just and proper citizens of the British Wizarding community: Griselda Marchbanks, Tiberius Odgen, Elphias Doge, Saul Croaker, and Colum Lufkin. Considering they were in a clear minority seemed suspicious on its own. But like Brown, she thought that neither of those had it in them to act so cruel and guileful.

Hermione yawned and stretched her limbs. She still had seven hours until the meeting with Lucius. Enough time to sleep and get ready. Her stomach contracted painfully, unsure if from the coffee or the idea that she had to bear his judgemental stare. Unfortunately, her research on his curse remained completely unsuccessful, which meant she had to break him the news that she needed to analyse his cursed body. Hermione shuddered. She would have rather spent Halloween with a troll in the bathroom.


End file.
